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THE   WRITINGS   OP 
GEORGE  ELIOT 


IN  TWENTY-TWO   VOLUMES 
VOLUME  VIII 


LIBRARY 

Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


TITO  AND  BALDASSARRE   [page  S25) 


i 


THE   WRITINGS   OF 
GEOEGE  ELIOT 

EOMOLA 

I 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

CZrt)e  Ei))cr0ilie  prcect  CambriUse 


COPYRIGHT  1907  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVEO 


ga3 

v.l 

INTRODUCTION 

GEORGE  Eliot's  fifth  book  is  of  special  interest  as 
involving  an  important  departure  in  her  literary 
work.   From  England  she  turned  to  Italy,  from  yester- 
day to  the  time  of  the  Renaissance,  from  her  own  ex- 
perience and  the  reminiscences  of  her  friends  to  history 
and  research.  While  on  a  visit  to  Florence  in  May,  1860, 
she  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  an  historical  romance 
of  Savonarola's  Italy;  but  she  had  many  initial  misgivings 
y  about  it,  and  though,  in  writing  to  Major  Blackwood 
^  from  Florence,  she  made  obscure  mention  of  a  certain 
^'ambitious  project,"  it  was  not  till  the  following  August 
^  that  she  announced  her  plan  to  her  publishers  in  a  letter 
j  to  Mr.  John  Blackwood.  Then  her  thoughts  on  Savon- 
^  arola  and  Italy  were  interrupted  by  the  story  of  "Silas 
Z  Mamer,"  which  came  to  her  suddenly  and  demanded 
[^    to  be  written.  "Silas  Mamer"  was  published  in  March, 
^    1861,  and  the  4th  of  May  found  her  again  in  Florence, 
^«  where  she  remained  till  June  7.   This  time  she  had 
^^   come  for  the  express  purpose  of  working  up  the  material 
'   for  a  novel  and  absorbing  tlie  Italian  atmosphere  and 
%   local  color.  She  spent  tlie  morning  hours  in  "looking  at 
'streets,  buildings,  and  pictures,  in  hunting  up  old  books 
at  shops  or  stalls,  or  in  reading  at  the  Magliabecchian 
Library."    Both  at  Florence  and  after  her  return  to 
England  she  read  and  studied  an  almost  incredible 
^  number  of  books  bearing  on  all  phases  of  Italian  life  in 

[    V    ] 

7685t).3 


INTRODUCTION 

the  fifteenth  century;  for,  as  she  wrote  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  she  "took  unspeakable  pains  in  preparing  to 
write  *Romola.'" 

The  work  on  "Romola  "  was  a  severe  strain  on  George 
Eliot,  not  only  from  the  immense  amount  of  labor  and 
study  involved  in  it,  but  also  from  the  confirmed  ill 
health  and  despondency  which  attended  her  almost 
constantly.  Mr.  Cross  says:  "The  writing  of  'Romola* 
ploughed  into  her  more  than  any  of  her  other  books. 
She  told  me  she  could  put  her  finger  on  it  as  marking 
a  well-defined  transition  in  her  life.  In  her  own  words, 
*I  began  it  a  young  woman,  —  I  finished  it  an  old 
woman. ' "  At  last,  after  a  long  struggle  with  her  demon 
of  depression,  she  finished  writing  the  plot  in  December, 
and  then,  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  1862,  she  got  fairly 
started  on  the  book  itself.  The  diflBculties  were  by  no 
means  over,  however,  and  on  the  last  day  of  January 
she  wrote  in  her  journal,  "It  is  impossible  to  me  to 
believe  that  I  have  ever  been  in  so  unpromising  and  de- 
spairing a  state  as  I  now  feel."  It  was  not  till  May  that 
she  could  see  the  way  clear  enough  before  her  to  make 
any  publishing  engagements,  but  some  time  between 
the  6th  and  the  23d  of  that  month  she  arranged  with 
Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Company  to  bring  the  novel  out 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  the  unprecedented  price 
of  £7000.  Mr.  Smith  had  offered  ^£10,000  for  the  serial 
rights  and  the  entire  copyright  at  home  and  abroad. 
Mr.  Oscar  Browning  says  that  he  has  heard  on  good 
authority  that  the  sum  eventually  paid  was  £12,000, 
which  covered  the  right  of  publication  for  four  years. 
Apparently  the  Blackwoods  had  been  unable  to  pay 
[   vi   ] 


INTRODUCTION 

what  Mr.  Lewes  thought  "Romola"  ought  to  bring. 
The  change  of  publishers  seems  to  have  produced  no 
ill  feeling  on  either  side  and  in  the  event  proved  only 
temporary. 

"Romola"  began  its  appearance  in  the  Comhill  in 
July,  1862,  and  ran  through  fourteen  numbers,  ending 
with  August,  1863.  Considerable  anxiety  attended  the 
regular  production  of  monthly  instalments  for  the 
press,  but  on  the  whole  the  author's  health  was  better 
than  usual  for  a  good  part  of  the  time.  On  May  16, 
1863,  she  "killed  Tito  in  great  excitement,"  and  on 
June  9  she  finished  the  book, — at  16,  Blandford  Square, 
where  practically  the  entire  book  was  written. 

The  serial  publication  of  "Romola"  proved  a  some- 
what disappointing  enterprise  for  the  publishers  of  the 
Comhill  Magazine^  and  to  compensate  them  in  some 
measure  George  Eliot  made  them  a  present  of  her  short 
story  "  Brother  Jacob."  The  monthly  instalments  were 
warmly  welcomed,  nevertheless,  by  many  discriminating 
readers,  and  the  author  wrote  her  friend  Miss  Hennell, 
February  2,  1863,  when  the  story  had  run  about  half  its 
course  in  the  magazine,  "I  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
pretty  encouragement  from  immense  big-wigs  —  some 
of  them  saying  'Romola'  is  the  finest  book  they  ever 
read." 

"Romola"  is  still  considered  by  many  critics  George 
Eliot's  greatest  book.  Others,  while  admitting  the  ex- 
traordinary power  of  the  story,  think  the  historical 
setting  unsuccessful.  This  setting  shows  an  erudition 
which  is  truly  remarkable,  especially  considering  the  un- 
toward circumstances  attending  the  preparation  of  the 
[   vii   ] 


INTRODUCTION 

book,  and  yet,  as  Mr.  Oscar  Browning  says,  "the  finish 
is  so  rare  that  the  joints  between  erudition  and  imagina- 
tion cannot  be  discovered."  In  spite  of  all  her  study, 
however,  George  Eliot,  being  modem  and  English,  was 
unable  to  depict  the  Italian  life  of  the  fifteenth  century 
in  a  manner  to  deceive  the  elect.  Italians  and  those 
best  acquainted  with  Italy  regard  this  side  of  the  book 
as  not  an  unqualified  success.  D.  G.  Rossetti  thought 
the  author  had  not  caught  the  tone  and  color  of  Ital- 
ian life,  and  Dr.  Biagi  says  that  the  heroine  is  English, 
not  Italian.  Yet  similar  criticisms  would  probably  apply 
to  all  romances  of  this  class,  and  "Romola,"  to  quote 
Mr.  Oscar  Browning  again,  "remains  perhaps  the  best 
of  all  historical  novels,  but  a  warning  that  no  more 
should  ever  be  attempted."  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  con- 
sidered it  "  a  singularly  powerful  representation  of  an 
interesting  spiritual  history."  The  author  herself,  with 
characteristic  earnestness  and  modesty,  wrote,  "My 
predominant  feeling  is,  —  not  that  I  have  achieved 
anything,  but  —  that  great,  great  facts  have  struggled 
to  find  a  voice  through  me,  and  have  only  been  able  to 
speak  brokenly." 


CONTENTS 


FROBM 1 

BOOK  I 

L  THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 15 

IL  A  BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE 35 

m.  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 42 

IV.  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 59 

V.  THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER    ...  65 

TI.  DAWNING  HOPES      86 

Vn.  A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 110 

ynL  A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 119 

DC  A  MAN'S  RANSOM 188 

X.  UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 150 

XL  TITO'S  DILEMMA 168 

Xn.  THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 174 

XUI.  THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 193 

XIV.  THE  PEASANTS'   FAIR 204 

XV.  THE  DYING  MESSAGE , 226 

XVL  A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 239 

XVn.  UNDER  THE  LOGGIA    .....•..,,....  259 

XVIIL  THE  PORTRAIT 269 

XIX.  THE  OLD  MAN'S  HOPE 279 

XX.  THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 285 


[     «    ] 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  II 

XXI.  FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST SOS 

XXII.  THE  PRISONERS 315 

XXIII.  AFTERTHOUGHTS 327 

XXIV.  INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 332 

XXV.  OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO 342 

XXVI.  THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR 349 

XXVn.  THE. YOUNG  WIFE 357 

XXVni.  THE  PAINTED  RECORD , 37S 

XXIX.  A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 381 

XXX.  THE  AVENGER'S  8ECRET 892 

XXXI.  FRUIT  IS  SEED 406 

XXXn.  A  REVELATION     . 414 


INSCRIPTION   ON  THE   MANUSCRIPT 

To  the  Husband  whose  perfect  love  has  been  the 
best  source  of  her  insight  and  strength,  this 
manuscript  is  given  by  his  devoted  wife,  the 
writer. 


ROMOLA 

PROEM 

MORE  than  three  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  in  the 
mid  springtime  of  1492,  we  are  sure  that  the 
angel  of  the  dawn,  as  he  travelled  with  broad  slow  wing 
from  the  Lrevant  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  and  from  the 
summits  of  the  Caucasus  across  all  the  snowy  Alpine 
ridges  to  the  dark  nakedness  of  the  Western  isles,  saw 
nearly  the  same  outline  of  firm  land  and  unstable  sea 
—  saw  the  same  great  mountain  shadows  on  the  same 
valleys  as  he  has  seen  to-day  —  saw  olive  mounts, 
and  pine  forests,  and  the  broad  plains  green  with 
young  com  or  rain-freshened  grass  —  saw  the  domes 
and  spires  of  cities  rising  by  the  riversides  or  mingled 
with  the  sedge-like  masts  on  the  many-curved  seacoast, 
in  the  same  spots  where  they  rise  to-day j' And  as  the 
faint  light  of  his  course  pierced  into  the  dwellings  of 
men,  it  fell,  as  now,  on  the  rosy  warmth  of  nestling 
children;  on  the  haggard  waking  of  sorrow  and  sick- 
ness ;  on  the  hasty  uprising  of  the  hard-handed  labourer; 
and  on  the  late  sleep  of  the  night-student,  who  had 
been  questioning  the  stars  or  the  sages,  or  his  own  soul, 
for  that  hidden  knowledge  which  would  break  through 
the  barrier  of  man's  brief  life,  and  show  its  dark  path, 
that  seemed  to  bend  no  whither,  to  be  an  arc  in  an 
immeasurable  circle  of  light  and  glory.  IThe  great  river- 
courses  which  have  shaped  the  lives  of  men  have  hardly 

[    1   ] 


ROMOLA 

changed;  and  those  other  streams,  the  life-currents  that 
ebb  and  flow  in  human  hearts,  pulsate  to  the  same 
great  needs,  the  same  great  loves  and  terrors.  As  our 
thought  follows  close  in  the  slow  wake  of  the  dawn,  we 
are  impressed  with /the  broad  sameness  of  the  human 
I  lot,  which  never  alters  in  the  main  headings  of  its  his- 
tory —  hunger  and  labour,  seed-time  and  harvest,  love 
I    and  death. 

Even  if,  instead  of  following  the  dim  daybreak,  our 
imagination  pauses  on  a  certain  historical  spot  and 
awaits  the  fuller  morning,  we  may  see  a  world-famous 
city,  which  has  hardly  changed  its  outline  since  the 
days  of  Columbus,  seeming  to  stand  as  an  almost  un- 
violated  symbol,  amidst  the  flux  of  human  things,  to 
remind  us  that  we  still  resemble  the  men  of  the  past 
more  than  we  differ  from  them,  as  the  great  mechanical 
principles  on  which  those  domes  and  towers  were  raised 
must  make  a  likeness  in  human  building  that  will  be 
broader  and  deeper  than  all  possible  change.  And 
doubtless,  if  the  spirit  of  a  Florentine  citizen,  whose 
eyes  were  closed  for  the  last  time  while  Columbus 
was  still  waiting  and  arguing  for  the  three  poor  vessels 
with  which  he  was  to  set  sail  from  the  port  of  Palos, 
could  return  from  the  shades  and  pause  where  our 
thought  is  pausing,  he  would  believe  that  there  must 
still  be  fellowship  and  understanding  for  him  among 
the  inheritors  of  his  birthplace. 

Let  us  suppose  that  such  a  Shade  has  been  permitted 
to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  golden  morning,  and  is 
standing  once  more  on  the  famous  hill  of  San  Miniato, 
which  overlooks  Florence  from  the  south. 

[    2   ] 


PROEM 

The  Spirit  is  clothed  in  his  habit  as  he  lived:  the 
folds  of  his  well-lined  black  silk  garment  or  lucco  hang 
in  grave  unbroken  lines  from  neck  to  ankle;  his  plain 
cloth  cap,  with  its  becchetto,  or  long  hanging  strip  of 
drapery,  to  serve  as  a  scarf  in  case  of  need,  surmounts 
a  penetrating  face,  not,  perhaps,  very  handsome,  but 
with  a  firm,  well-cut  mouth,  kept  distinctly  human 
by  a  close-shaven  lip  and  chin.  It  is  a  face  charged 
with  memories  of  a  keen  and  various  life  passed  below 
there  on  the  banks  of  the  gleaming  river;  and  as  he 
looks  at  the  scene  before  him,  the  sense  of  familiarity 
is  so  much  stronger  than  the  perception  of  change,  that 
he  thinks  it  might  be  possible  to  descend  once  more 
amongst  the  streets,  and  take  up  that  busy  life  where 
he  left  it.  For  it  is  not  only  the  mountains  and  the 
westward-bending  river  that  he  recognizes;  not  only 
the  dark  sides  of  Mount  Morello  opposite  to  him,  and 
the  long  valley  of  the  Arno  that  seems  to  stretch  its 
grey  low-tufted  luxuriance  to  the  far-off  ridges  of 
Carrara;  and  the  steep  height  of  Fiesole,  with  its  crown 
of  monastic  walls  and  cypresses ;  and  all  the  green  and 
grey  slopes  sprinkled  with  villas  which  he  can  name 
as  he  looks  at  them.  He  sees  other  familiar  objects  much 
closer  to  his  daily  walks.  For  though  he  misses  the 
seventy  or  more  towers  that  once  surmounted  the  walls, 
and  encircled  the  city  as  with  a  regal  diadem,  his  eyes 
will  not  dwell  on  that  blank;  they  are  drawn  irresist- 
ibly to  the  unique  tower  springing,  like  a  tall  flower- 
stem  drawn  towards  the  sun,  from  the  square  turreted 
mass  of  the  Old  Palace  in  the  very  heart  of  the  city 
—  the  tower  that  looks  none  the  worse  for  the  four 

[    3   ] 


ROMOLA 

centuries  that  have  passed  since  he  used  to  walk  under 
it.  The  great  dome,  too,  greatest  in  the  world,  which, 
in  his  early  boyhood,  had  been  only  a  daring  thought  in 
the  mind  of  a  small,  quick-eyed  man  —  there  it  raises 
its  large  curves  still,  eclipsing  the  hills.  And  the  well- 
known  bell-towers  —  Giotto's,  with  its  distant  hint  of 
rich  colour,  and  the  graceful-spired  Badia,  and  the  rest 
—  he  looked  at  them  all  from  the  shoulder  of  his  nurse. 

"Surely,"  he  thinks,  "Florence  can  still  ring  her 
bells  with  the  solemn  hammer-sound  that  used  to  beat 
on  the  hearts  of  her  citizens  and  strike  out  the  fire 
there.  And  here,  on  the  right,  stands  the  long  dark  mass 
of  Santa  Croce,  where  we  buried  our  famous  dead, 
laying  the  laurel  on  their  cold  brows  and  fanning  them 
with  the  breath  of  praise  and  of  banners.  But  Santa 
Croce  had  no  spire  then:  we  Florentines  were  too  full 
of  great  building  projects  to  carry  them  all  out  in 
stone  and  marble;  we  had  our  frescoes  and  our  shrines 
to  pay  for,  not  to  speak  of  rapacious  condottieri,  bribed 
royalty,  and  purchased  territories,  and  our  facades 
and  spires  must  needs  wait.  But  what  architect  can 
the  Frati  Minori  *  have  employed  to  build  that  spire 
for  them?  If  it  had  been  built  in  my  day,  Filippo 
Brunelleschi  or  Michelozzo  would  have  devised  some- 
thing of  another  fashion  than  that  —  something  worthy 
to  crown  the  church  of  Arnolfo." 

At  this  the  Spirit,  with  a  sigh,  lets  his  eyes  travel 

on  to  the  city  walls,  and  now  he  dwffis  on  the  change 

there  with  wonder  at  these  modem  times.    ^Vhy  have 

five  out  of  the  eleven  convenient  gates  been  closed  ? 

» The  Franciscans. 

[   4   ] 


PROEM 

And  why,  above  all,  should  the  towers  have  been  levelled 
that  were  once  a  glory  and  defence  ?   Is  the  world  be- 
come so  peaceful,  then,  and  do  Florentines  dwell  in 
such  harmony,  that  there  are  no  longer  conspiracies 
to  bring  ambitious  exiles  home  again  with  armed  bands 
at  their  back  ?  These  are  difficult  questions :  it  is  easier 
and  pleasanter  to  recognize  the  old  than  to  account  for 
the  new.    And  there  flows  Arno,  with  its  bridges  just 
where  they  used  to  be  —  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  least  like 
other  bridges  in  the  world,  laden  with  the  same  quaint 
shops  where  our  Spirit  remembers  lingering  a  little  on 
his  way  perhaps  to  look  at  the  progress  of  that  great 
palace  which  Messer  Luca  Pitti  had   set   a-building 
with  huge  stones  got  from  the  Hill  of  Bogoli  ^  close  be- 
hind, or  perhaps  to  transact  a  little  business  with  the 
cloth-dressers  in  Oltrarno.    The  exorbitant  line  of  the 
Pitti  roof  is  hidden  from  San  Miniato;  but  the  yearn- 
ing of  the  old  Florentine  is  not  to  see  Messer  Luca's 
too  ambitious  palace  which  he  built  unto  himself;  it 
is  to  be  down  among  those  narrow  streets  and  busy 
humming  Piazze  where  he  inherited  the  eager  life  of  his 
fathers.  Is  not  the  anxious  voting  with  black  and  white 
beans  still  going  on  down  there  ?   Who  are  the  Priori 
in  these  months,  eating  soberly-regulated  official  din- 
ners in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  with  removes  of  tripe  and 
boiled  partridges,  seasoned  by  practical  jokes  against 
the  ill-fated  butt  among  those  potent  signors  ?  Are  not 
the  significant  banners  still  hung  from  the  windows 
—  still  distributed  with  decent  pomp  under  Orcagna's 
Loggia  every  two  months  ? 

*  Now  Buboli. 
[    -    ] 


ROMOLA 

Life  had  its  zest  for  the  old  Florentine  when  he, 
too,  trod  the  marble  steps  and  shared  in  those  dig- 
nities. His  politics  had  an  area  as  wide  as  his  trade, 
which  stretched  from  Syria  to  Britain,  but  they  had 
also  the  passionate  intensity,  and  the  detailed  prac- 
tical interest,  which  could  belong  only  to  a  narrow 
scene  of  corporate  action;  only  to  the  members  of  a 
community  shut  in  close  by  the  hills  and  by  walls  of 
six  miles'  circuit,  where  men  knew  each  other  as  they 
passed  in  the  street,  set  their  eyes  every  day  on  the  me- 
morials of  their  commonwealth,  and  were  conscious  of 
having  not  simply  the  right  to  vote,  but  the  chance 
of  being  voted  for.  He  loved  his  honours  and  his  gains, 
the  business  of  his  counting-house,  of  his  guild,  of  the 
public  council-chamber;  he  loved  his  enmities  too, 
and  fingered  the  white  bean  which  was  to  keep  a  hated 
name  out  of  the  borsa  with  more  complacency  than  if 
it  had  been  a  golden  florin.  He  loved  to  strengthen 
his  family  by  a  good  alliance,  and  went  home  with 
a  triumphant  light  in  his  eyes  after  concluding  a  satis- 
factory marriage  for  his  son  or  daughter  under  his 
favourite  loggia  in  the  evening  cool;  he  loved  his  game 
at  chess  under  that  same  loggia,  and  his  biting  jest, 
and  even  his  coarse  joke,  as  not  beneath  the  dignity 
of  a  man  eligible  for  the  highest  magistracy.  He  had 
gained  an  insight  into  all  sorts  of  affairs  at  home  and 
P  abroad:  he  had  been  of  the  "Ten"  who  managed  the 
'  4  war  department,  of  the  "  Eight "  who  attended  to  home 
discipline,  of  the  Priori  or^Signori  who  were  the  heads 
of  the  executive  government;  he  had  even  risen  to  the 
supreme  office  of  Gonfaloniere;  he  had  made  one  in 
[   6   ] 


PROEM 

embassies  to  the  Pope  and  to  the  Venetians;  and  he 
had  been  commissary  to  the  hired  army  of  the  Repub- 
lic, directing  the  inglorious  bloodless  battles  in  which 
no  man  died  of  brave  breast  wounds  —  virtuosi  colpi 

—  but  only  of  casual  falls  and  tramplings.  And  in  this 
way  he  had  learned  to  distrust  men  without  bitterness; 
looking  on  life  mainly  as  a  game  of  skill,  but  not  dead 
to  traditions  of  heroism  and  clean-handed  honour. 
For  the  human  soul  is  hospitable,  and  will  entertain 
conflicting  sentiments  and  contradictory  opinions  with 
much  impartiality.  It  was  his  pride,  besides,  that  he 
was  duly  tinctured  with  the  learning  of  his  age,  and 
judged  not  altogether  with  the  vulgar,  but  in  harmony 
with  the  ancients :  he,  too,  in  his  prime,  had  been  eager 
for  the  most  correct  manuscripts,  and  had  paid  many 
florins  for  antique  vases  and  for  disinterred  busts  of 
the  ancient  immortals  —  some,  perhaps,  truncis  nari- 
bus,  wanting  as  to  the  nose,  but  not  the  less  authentic; 
and  in  his  old  age  he  had  made  haste  to  look  at  the  first 
sheets  of  that  fine  Homer  which  was  among  the  early 
glories  of  the  Florentine  press.  But  he  had  not,  for 
all  that,  neglected  to  hang  up  a  waxen  image  or  double 
of  himself  under  the  protection  of  the  Madonna  An- 
nunziata,  or  to  do  penance  for  his  sins  in  large  gifts  to 
the  slirines  of  saints  whose  lives  had  not  been  modelled 
on  the  study  of  the  classics;  he  had  not  even  neglected 
making  liberal  bequests  towards  buildings  for  the  Frati, 
against  whom  he  had  levelled  many  a  jest. 

For  the  Unseen  Powers  were  mighty.    Who  knew 

—  who  was  sure  —  that  there  was  any  name  given  to 
them  behind  which  there  was  no  angry  force  to  be  ap- 

[    7    ] 


\^^ 


ROMOLA 

peased,  no  intercessory  pity  to  be  won  ?  Were  not  gems 
medicinal,  though  they  only  pressed  the  finger?  Were 
not  all  things  charged  with  occult  virtues  ?  Lucretius 
might  be  right  —  he  was  an  ancient,  and  a  great  poet; 
Luigi  Pulci,  too,  who  was  suspected  of  not  believing 
anything  from  the  roof  upward  (dal  tetto  in  su),  had 
very  much  the  air  of  being  right  over  the  supper-table, 
when  the  wine  and  jests  were  circulating  fast,  though 
he  was  only  a  poet  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  There  were 
even  learned  personages  who  maintained  that  Aristotle, 
wisest  of  men  (unless,  indeed,  Plato  were  wiser?),  was 
a  thoroughly  irreligious  philosopher;  and  a  liberal 
scholar  must  entertain  all  speculations.  But  the  nega- 
tives might,  after  all,  prove  false;  nay,  seemed  mani- 
festly false;  as  the  circling  hour  swept  past  him,  and 
turned  round  with  graver  faces.  For  had  not  the  world 
become  Christian  ?  Had  he  not  been  baptized  in  Saa 
Giovanni,  where  the  dome  is  awful  with  the  symbols 
of  coming  judgement,  and  where  the  altar  bears  a  cruci- 
fied Image  disturbing  to  perfect  complacency  in  one's 
'  self  and  the  world  ?  Our  resuscitated  Spirit  was  not  a 
pagan  philosopher,  nor  a  philosophizing  pagan  poet, 
L  but  a  man  of  the  fifteenth  century,  inheriting  its  strange 
■^  web  of  belief  and  unbelief;  of  Epicurean  levity  and 
fetidiistic  dread;  of  pedantic  impossible  ethics  uttered 
by  rote,  and  crude  passions  acted  out  with  childish 
impulsiveness;  of  inclination  towards  a  self-indulgent 
paganism,  and  inevitable  subjection  to  that  human 
conscience  which,  in  the  unrest  of  a  new  growth,  was 

I filling  the  air  with  strange  prophecies  and  presentiments. 

He  had  smiled,  perhaps,  and  shaken  his  head  dubi- 
[   8   ] 


PROEM 

ously,  as  he  heard  simple  folk  talk  of  a  Pope  Angelico, 
who  was  to  come  by  and  by  and  bring  in  a  new  order 
of  things,  to  purify  the  Church  from  simony,  and  the 
lives  of  the  clergy  from  scandal  —  a  state  of  affairs  too 
different  from  what  existed  under  Innocent  the  Eighth 
for  a  shrewd  merchant  and    politician  to  regard   the 
prospect  as  worthy  of  entering   into  his   calculations. 
But  he  felt  the  evils  of  the  time,  nevertheless;  for^e 
was  a  man  of  public  spirit,  and  public  spirit  can  never 
be  wholly  immoral,  since  its  essence  is  care  for  a  com- 
mon goodTl  That  very  Quaresima  or  Lent  of  1492  in 
which  he  died,  still  in  his  erect  old  age,  he  had  listened 
in  San  Lorenzo,  not  without  a  mixture  of  satisfaction, 
to  the  preaching  of  jfa  Dominican  Friar,  named  Giro^ 
lamo  Savonarola,  who  denounced  with  a  rare  bold- 
ness the  worldliness  and  vicious  habits  of  the  clergy, 
and  insisted  on  the  duty  of  Christian  men  not  to  live  for 
their  own  ease  when  wrong  was  triumphing  in  high 
places,  and  not  to  spend  their  wealth  in  outward  pomp 
even  in  the  churches,  when  their  fellow  citizens  were 
suffering  from  want  and  sickness.    The  Prate  carried  [ 
his  doctrine  rather  too  far  for  elderly  ears;  yet  it  was 
a  memorable  thing  to  see  a  preacher  move  his  audi- 
ence to  such  a  pitch  that  the  women  even  took  off  their 
ornaments,  and  delivered  them  up  to  be  sold  for  the 
benefit  of  the  needy. 

"He   was   a   noteworthy   man,   that   Prior   of   San 

Marco,"  thinks  our  Spirit;  "somewhat  arrogant  and 

extreme,  perhaps,  especially  in  his    denunciations  of 

speedy  vengeance.    Ah,  Iddio  non  paga  il  Sabaio  *  — ■ 

*  "  Grod  docs  not  pay  on  a  Saturday." 

[   9   ] 


ROMOLA 

the  wages  of  men's  sins  often  linger  in  their  payment, 
and  I  myself  saw  much  established  wickedness  of  long- 
standing prosperity.  But  a  Frate  Predicatore  who 
wanted  to  move  the  people  —  how  could  he  be  moder- 
ate ?  He  might  have  been  a  little  less  defiant  and  curt, 
though,  to  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  whose  family  had  been 
the  very  makers  of  San  Marco:  was  that  quarrel  ever 
made  up  ?  And  our  Lorenzo  himself,  with  the  dim 
outward  eyes  and  the  subtle  inward  vision,  did  he  get 
over  that  illness  at  Careggi  ?  It  was  but  a  sad,  uneasy- 
looking  face  that  he  would  carry  out  of  the  world  which 
had  given  him  so  much,  and  there  were  strong  suspicions 
that  his  handsome  son  would  play  the  part  of  Reho- 
boam.  How  has  it  all  turned  out?  Which  party  is 
likely  to  be  banished  and  have  its  houses  sacked  just 
now?  Is  there  any  successor  of  the  incomparable 
Lorenzo,  to  whom  the  great  Turk  is  so  gracious  as  to 
send  over  presents  of  rare  animals,  rare  relics,  rare 
manuscripts,  or  fugitive  enemies,  suited  to  the  tastes 
of  a  Christian  Magnifico  who  is  at  once  lettered  and 
devout  —  and  also  slightly  vindictive?  And  what  fa- 
mous scholar  is  dictating  the  Latin  letters  of  the  Re- 
public —  what  fiery  philosopher  is  lecturing  on  Dante 
in  the  Duomo,  and  going  home  to  write  bitter  invect- 
ives against  the  father  and  mother  of  the  bad  critic 
who  may  have  found  fault  with  his  classical  spelling? 
Are  our  wiser  heads  leaning  towards  alliance  with  the 
Pope  and  the  Regno,  ^  or  are  they  rather  inclining  their 
ears  to  the  orators  of  France  and  of  Milan  ? 

*  The  name  given  to  Naples  by  way  of  distinction  among  the 
Italian  States. 

[    10   ]    , 


PROEM 

"There  is  knowledge  of  these  things  to  be  had  in 
the  streets  below,  on  the  beloved  marmi  in  front  of  the 
churches,  and  under  the  sheltering  Loggie,  where 
surely  our  citizens  have  still  their  gossip  and  debates, 
their  bitter  and  merry  jests  as  of  old.  For  are  not  the 
well-remembered  buildings  all  there  ?  The  changes  have 
not  been  so  great  in  those  uncounted  years.  I  will  go 
down  and  hear  —  I  will  tread  the  familiar  pavement, 
and  hear  once  again  the  speech  of  Florentines." 

Go  not  down,  good  Spirit !  for  the  changes  are  great 
and  the  speech  of  the  Florentines  would  sound  as  a 
riddle  in  your  ears.  Or,  if  you  go,  mingle  with  no  poli- 
ticians on  the  marmi,  or  elsewhere;  ask  no  questions 
about  trade  in  the  Calimara;  confuse  yourself  with  no 
inquiries  into  scholarship,  official  or  monastic.  Onlyl 
look  at  the  sunlight  and  shadows  on  the  grand  walls/  \ 
that  were  built  solidly,  and  have  endured  in  their  grand- 
eur; look  at  the  faces  of  the  little  children,  making 
another  sunlight  amid  the  shadows  of  age;  look,  if  you 
will,  into  the  churches,  and  hear  the  same  chants,  see 
the  same  images  as  of  old  —  the  images  of  willing  an- 
guish for  a  great  end,  of  beneficent  love  and  ascending 
glory ;  see  upturned  living  faces,  and  lips  moving  to  the 
old  prayers  for  help.  These  things  have  not  changed. 
The  sunlight  and  shadows  bring  their  old  beauty  and 
waken  the  heart-strains  at  morning,  noon,  and  even- 
tide; the  little  children  are  still  the  symbol  of  the  eternal 
marriage  between  love  and  duty;  and  men  still  yearn 
for  the  reign  of  peace  and  righteousness  —  still  own 
that  life  to  be  the  highest  which  is  a  conscious  voluntary 
sacrifice.  For  the  Pope  Angelico  is  not  come  yet.  {^ 


BOOK  I 


CHAPTER  I 
THE   SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

THE  Loggia  de'  Cerchi  stood  in  the  heart  of  old  Flor- 
ence, within  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  behind 
the  Badia,  now  rarely  threaded  by  the  stranger,  unless 
in  a  dubious  search  for  a  certain  severely  simple  door- 
place  bearing  this  inscription: 

QUI  NACQUE   IL  DIVINO   POETA 

To  the  ear  of  Dante,  the  same  streets  rang  with  the 
shout  and  clash  of  fierce  battle  between  rival  families; 
but  in  the  fifteenth  century,  they  were  only  noisy  with 
the  unhistorical  quarrels  and  broad  jests  of  wool-carders 
in  the  cloth-producing  quarters  of  San  Martino  and 
Garbo. 

Under  this  loggia,  in  the  early  morning  of  the  9th  V 
of  April,  1492,  two  men  had  their  eyes  fixed  on  each 
other:  one  was  stooping  slightly,  and  looking  downward 
with  the  scrutiny  of  curiosity;  the  other,  lying  on  the 
pavement,  was  looking  upward  with  the  startled  gaze 
of  a  suddenly-awakened  dreamer. 

The  standing  figure  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was 
a  grey-haired,  broad-shouldered  man,  of  the  type  which, 
in  Tuscan  phrase,  is  moulded  with  the  fist  and  polished 
with  the  pickaxe;  but  the  self-important  gravity  which 
had  written  itself  out  in  the  deep  lines  about  his  brow 
and  mouth  seemed  intended  to  correct  any  contempt- 
uous inferences  from  the  hasty  workmanship  which 
[   15   ] 


ROMOLA 

Nature  had  bestowed  on  his  exterior.  He  had  deposited 
a  large  well-filled  bag,  made  of  skins,  on  the  pavement, 
and  before  him  hung  a  pedlar's  basket,  garnished 
partly  with  small  woman's  ware,  such  as  thread  and 
pins,  and  partly  with  fragments  of  glass,  which  had 
probably  been  taken  in  exchange  for  those  commod- 
ities. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  ring  on  the 
finger  of  the  reclining  figure,  "  when  your  chin  has  got 
a  stiffer  crop  on  it,  you  '11  know  better  than  to  take  your 
nap  in  street-corners  with  a  ring  like  that  on  your  fore- 
finger. By  the  holy  'vangels!  if  it  had  been  anybody 
but  me  standing  over  you  two  minutes  ago  —  but 
Bratti  Ferravecchi  is  not  the  man  to  steal.  The  cat 
could  n't  eat  her  mouse  if  she  did  n't  catch  it  alive,  and 
Bratti  could  n't  relish  gain  if  it  had  no  taste  of  a  bar- 
gain. Why,  young  man,  one  San  Giovanni,  three  years 
ago,  the  Saint  sent  a  dead  body  in  my  way  —  a  blind 
beggar,  with  his  cap  well  lined  with  pieces  —  but,  if 
you  '11  believe  me,  my  stomach  turned  against  the  money 
I  'd  never  bargained  for,  till  it  came  into  my  head  that 
San  Giovanni  owed  me  the  pieces  for  what  I  spend  yearly 
at  the  festa:  besides,  I  buried  the  body  and  paid  for 
a  mass  —  and  so  I  saw  it  was  a  fair  bargain.  But  how 
comes  a  young  man  like  you,  with  the  face  of  Messer 
San  Michele,  to  be  sleeping  on  a  stone  bed  with  the 
wind  for  a  curtain  ?  " 

The  deep  guttural  sounds  of  the  speaker  were  scarcely 
intelligible  to  the  newly-waked,  bewildered  listener,  but 
he  understood  the  action  of  pointing  to  his  ring:  he 
looked  down  at  it,  and,  with  a  half-automatic  obedience 

[   16  ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

to  the  warning,  took  it  off  and  thrust  it  within  his  doub- 
let, rising  at  the  same  time  and  stretching  himself. 

"Your  tunic  and  hose  match  ill  with  that  jewel, 
young  man,"  said  Bratti,  deliberately.  "Anybody 
might  say  the  saints  had  sent  you  a  dead  body;  but  if 
you  took  the  jewels,  I  hope  you  buried  him  —  and  you 
can  afford  a  mass  or  two  for  him  into  the  bargain." 

Something  like  a  painful  thrill  appeared  to  dart 
through  the  frame  of  the  listener,  and  arrest  the  careless 
stretching  of  his  arms  and  chest.  For  an  instant  he 
turned  on  Bratti  with  a  sharp  frown;  but  he  immedi- 
ately recovered  an  air  of  indifference,  took  off  the  red 
Levantine  cap  which  hung  like  a  great  purse  over  his 
left  ear,  pushed  back  his  long  dark-brown  curls,  and, 
glancing  at  his  dress,  said,  smilingly,  — 

"  You  speak  truth,  friend :  my  garments  are  as  weatheF- 
stained  as  an  old  sail,  and  they  are  not  old  either,  only, 
like  an  old  sail,  they  have  had  a  sprinkling  of  the  sea  as 
well  as  the  rain.  The  fact  is,  I  'm  a  stranger  in  Florence, 
and  when  I  came  in  footsore  last  night  I  preferred  fling- 
ing myself  in  a  corner  of  this  hospitable  porch  to  hunt- 
ing any  longer  for  a  chance  hostelry,  which  might  turn 
out  to  be  a  nest  of  blood-suckers  of  more  sorts  than  one." 

"A  stranger,  in  good  sooth,"  said  Bratti,  "for  the 
words  come  all  melting  out  of  your  throat,  so  that 
a  Christian  and  a  Florentine  can't  toll  a  hook  from 
a  hanger.  But  you're  not  from  Genoa?  More  likely 
from  Venice,  by  the  cut  of  your  clothes  ? " 

"  At  this  present  moment,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling, 
**  it  is  of  less  importance  where  I  come  from  than  where 
I  can  go  to  for  a  mouthful  of  breakfast.  This  city  of 
[    17   ] 


ROMOLA 

yours  turns  a  grim  look  on  me  just  here :  can  you  show 
me  the  way  to  a  more  lively  quarter,  where  I  can  get 
a  meal  and  a  lodging  ?  " 

"  That  I  can,"  said  Bratti,  "  and  it  is  your  good  for- 
tune, young  man,  that  I  have  happened  to  be  walking 
in  from  Rovezzano  this  morning,  and  turned  out  of  my 
way  to  Mercato  Vecchio  to  say  an  Ave  at  the  Badia. 
That,  I  say,  is  your  good  fortune.  But  it  remains  to  be 
seen  what  is  my  profit  in  the  matter.  Nothing  for  no- 
thing, young  man.  If  I  show  you  the  way  to  Mercato 
Vecchio,  you'll  swear  by  your  patron  saint  to  let  me 
have  the  bidding  for  that  stained  suit  of  yours,  when 
you  set  up  a  better  —  as  doubtless  you  will." 

"Agreed,  by  San  Niccolo,"  said  the  other,  laughing. 
"  But  now  let  us  set  off  to  this  said  Mercato,  for  I  feel 
the  want  of  a  better  lining  to  this  doublet  of  mine  which 
you  are  coveting." 

"Coveting?  Nay,"  said  Bratti,  heaving  his  bag  on 
his  back  and  setting  out.  But  he  broke  off  in  his  reply, 
and  burst  out  in  loud,  harsh  tones,  not  unlike  the  creak- 
ing and  grating  of  a  cart-wheel :  "  Chi  abbaratta  —  bar- 
atta  —  bWatta  —  chi  abbaratta  cenci  e  vetri  —  Vratta 
ferri  vecchi  ?  "  ^ 

"It's  worth  but  little,"  he  said,  presently,  relapsing 
into  his  conversational  tone,  "Hose  and  altogether 
your  clothes  are  worth  but  little.  Still,  if  you  've  a  mind 
to  set  yourself  up  with  a  lute  worth  more  than  any  new 
one,  or  with  a  sword  that 's  been  worn  by  a  Ridolfi,  or 
with  a  paternoster  of  the  best  mode,  I  could  let  you  have 
a  great  bargain,  by  making  an  allowance  for  the  clothes ; 

1  "  Who  wants  to  exchange  rags,  broken  glass,  or  old  iron  ?  " 
[    18   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

for,  simple  as  I  stand  here,  I  've  got  the  best-furnished 
shop  in  the  Ferravecchi,  and  it 's  close  by  the  Mercato. 
The  Virgin  be  praised !  it 's  not  a  pumpkin  I  carry  on  my 
shoulders.  But  I  don't  stay  caged  in  my  shop  all  day: 
I  've  got  a  wife  and  a  raven  to  stay  at  home  and  mind 
the  stock.  Chi  abbaratta  —  baratta  —  b'ratta  ?  .  . 
And  now,  young  man,  where  do  you  come  from,  and 
what 's  your  business  in  Florence  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  liked  nothing  that  came  to  you  with- 
out a  bargain,"  said  the  stranger.  "  You  've  offered  me 
nothing  yet  in  exchange  for  that  information." 

"Well,  well;  a  Florentine  does  n't  mind  bidding  a  fair 
price  for  news:  it  stays  the  stomach  a  little,  though  he 
may  win  no  hose  by  it.  If  I  take  you  to  the  prettiest 
damsel  in  the  Mercato  to  get  a  cup  of  milk  —  that  will 
be  a  fair  bargain." 

"Nay;  I  can  find  her  myself,  if  she  be  really  in  the 
Mercato ;  for  pretty  heads  are  apt  to  look  forth  of  doors 
and  windows.  No,  no.  Besides,  a  sharp  trader,  like  you, 
ought  to  know  that  he  who  bids  for  nuts  and  news  may 
chance  to  find  them  hollow." 

"Ah!  young  man,"  said  Bratti,  with  a  sideway  glance 
of  some  admiration,  "  you  were  not  born  of  a  Sunday  — 
the  salt-shops  were  open  when  you  came  into  the  world. 
You  're  not  a  Hebrew,  eh  ?  —  come  from  Spain  or 
Naples,  eh  ?  Let  me  tell  you  the  Frati  Minori  are  try- 
ing to  make  Florence  as  hot  as  Spain  for  those  dogs  of 
hell  that  want  to  get  all  the  profit  of  usury  to  themselves 
and  leave  none  for  Christians;  and  when  you  walk  the 
Calimara  with  a  piece  of  yellow  cloth  in  your  cap  it  will 
spoil  your  beauty  more  than  a  sword-cut  across  that 

[    19   ] 


ROMOLA 

smooth  olive  cheek  of  yours.  —  Abbaratta,  baratta  — 
chi  abbaratta  ?  —  I  tell  you,  young  man,  grey  cloth  is 
against  yellow  cloth;  and  there's  as  much  grey  cloth 
in  Florence  as  would  make  a  gown  and  cowl  for  the 
Duomo,  and  there 's  not  so  much  yellow  cloth  as  would 
make  hose  for  Saint  Christopher  —  blessed  be  his  name, 
and  send  me  a  sight  of  him  this  day !  —  Abbaratta,  bar- 
atta, bWatta  —  chi  abbaratta  ?  " 

"  All  that  is  very  amusing  information  you  are  parting 
with  for  nothing,"  said  the  stranger,  rather  scornfully; 
"  but  it  happens  not  to  concern  me.  I  am  no  Hebrew." 

"See,  now!"  said  Bratti,  triumphantly;  "I've  made 
a  good  bargain  with  mere  words.  I  've  made  you  tell 
me  something,  young  man,  though  you're  as  hard  to 
hold  as  a  lamprey.  San  Giovanni  be  praised!  a  blind 
Florentine  is  a  match  for  two  one-eyed  men.  But  here 
we  are  in  the  Mercato." 

They  had  now  emerged  from  the  narrow  streets  into 
a  broad  piazza,  known  to  the  elder  Florentine  writers  as 
the  Mercato  Vecchio,  or  the  Old  Market.  This  piazza, 
though  it  had  been  the  scene  of  a  provision-market  from 
time  immemorial,  and  may,  perhaps,  says  fond  im.agina- 
tion,  be  the  very  spot  to  which  the  Fesulean  ancestors 
of  the  Florentines  descended  from  their  high  fastness  to 
traffic  with  the  rustic  population  of  the  valley,  had  not 
been  shunned  as  a  place  of  residence  by  Florentine 
wealth.  In  the  early  decades  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
which  was  now  near  its  end  the  Medici  and  other  power- 
ful families  of  the  popolani  grassi,  or  commercial  nobil- 
ity, had  their  houses  there,  not  perhaps  finding  their 
ears  much  offended  by  the  loud  roar  of  mingled  dialects 
[   20   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

or  their  eyes  much  shocked  by  the  butchers'  stalls, 
which  the  old  poet  Antonio  Pucci  accounts  a  chief  glory, 
or  dignita,  of  a  market  that,  in  this  esteem,  eclipsed  the 
markets  of  all  the  earth  beside.  But  the  glory  of  mutton 
and  veal  (well  attested  to  be  the  flesh  of  the  right  ani- 
mals; for  were  not  the  skins,  with  the  heads  attached, 
duly  displayed,  according  to  the  decree  of  the  Signoria  ?) 
was  just  now  wanting  to  the  Mercato,  the  time  of  Lent 
not  being  yet  over.  The  proud  corporation,  or  "  Art,'* 
of  butchers  was  in  abeyance,  and  it  was  the  great  har- 
vest-time of  the  market-gardeners,  the  cheesemongers, 
the  vendors  of  macaroni,  com,  eggs,  milk,  and  dried 
fruits:  a  change  which  was  apt  to  make  the  women's 
voices  predominant  in  the  chorus.  But  in  all  seasons 
there  was  the  experimental  ringing  of  pots  and  pans, 
the  chinking  of  the  money-changers,  the  tempting  offers 
of  cheapness  at  the  old-clothes  stalls,  the  challenges  of 
the  dicers,  the  vaunting  of  new  linens  and  woollens,  of 
excellent  woodenware,  kettles,  and  frying-pans ;  there 
was  the  choking  of  the  narrow  inlets  with  mules  and 
carts,  together  with  much  uncomplimentary  remon- 
strance in  terms  remarkably  identical  with  the  insults 
in  use  by  the  gentler  sex  of  the  present  day,  under  the 
same  imbrowning  and  heating  circumstances.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who  came  to  market,  looked  on  at  a 
larger  amount  of  amateur  fighting  than  could  easily  be 
seen  in  these  later  times,  and  beheld  more  revolting  rags, 
beggary,  and  rascaldom,  than  modern  householders 
could  well  picture  to  themselves.  As  the  day  wore  on, 
the  hideous  drama  of  the  gaming-house  might  be  seen 
here  by  any  chance  open-air  spectator  —  the  quivering 
[   21    ] 


ROMOLA 

eagerness,  the  blank  despair,  the  sobs,  the  blasphemy, 
and  the  blows :  — 

"E  vedesi  chi  perde  con  gran  soffi, 
E  bestemmiar  coUa  mano  alia  mascella, 
E  ricever  e  dar  di  molti  ingoffi.** 

But  still  there  was  the  relief  of  prettier  sights:  there 
were  brood-rabbits,  not  less  innocent  and  astonished 
than  those  of  our  own  period;  there  were  doves  and 
singing-birds  to  be  bought  as  presents  for  the  children; 
there  were  even  kittens  for  sale,  and  here  and  there  a 
handsome  gattuccio,  or  "Tom,"  with  the  highest  char- 
acter for  mousing  ;  and,  better  than  all,  tliere  were 
young,  softly-rounded  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  freshened 
by  the  start  from  the  far-off  castello*  at  daybreak,  not 
to  speak  of  older  faces  with  the  unfading  charm  of  hon- 
est good  will  in  them,  such  as  are  never  quite  wanting 
in  scenes  of  human  industry.  And  high  on  a  pillar  in  the 
centre  of  the  place  —  a  venerable  pillar,  fetched  from 
the  Church  of  San  Giovanni  —  stood  Donatello's  stone 
statue  of  Plenty,  with  a  fountain  near  it,  where,  says 
old  Pucci,  the  good  wives  of  the  market  freshened  their 
utensils,  and  their  throats  also;  not  because  they  were 
unable  to  buy  wine,  but  because  they  wished  to  save  the 
money  for  their  husbands. 

But  on  this  particular  morning  a  sudden  change 
seemed  to  have  come  over  the  face  of  the  market.  The 
dcschi,  or  stalls,  were  indeed  partly  dressed  with  their 
various  commodities,  and  already  there  were  purchas- 
ers assembled,  on  the  alert  to  secure  the  finest,  freshest 
vegetables  and  the  most  unexceptionable  butter.  But 
'  Walled  village. 
[   22   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

when  Bratti  and  his  companion  entered  the  piazza,  it 
appeared  that  some  common  preoccupation  had  for  the 
moment  distracted  the  attention  both  of  buyers  and 
sellers  from  their  proper  business.  Most  of  the  traders 
had  turned  their  backs  on  their  goods,  and  had  joined 
the  knots  of  talkers  who  were  concentrating  themselves 
at  different  points  in  the  piazza.  A  vendor  of  old  clothes, 
in  the  act  of  hanging  out  a  pair  of  long  hose,  had  dis- 
tractedly hung  them  round  his  neck  in  his  eagerness 
to  join  the  nearest  group ;  an  oratorical  cheesemonger, 
with  a  piece  of  cheese  in  one  hand  and  a  knife  in  the 
other,  was  incautiously  making  notes  of  his  emphatic 
pauses  on  that  excellent  specimen  of  marzolino;  and 
elderly  market-women,  with  their  egg-baskets  in  a 
dangerously  oblique  position,  contributed  a  wailing 
fugue  of  invocation. 

In  this  general  distraction,  the  Florentine  boys,  who 
were  never  wanting  in  any  street  scene,  and  were  of  an 
especially  mischievous  sort,  —  as  who  should  say,  very 
sour  crabs  indeed,  —  saw  a  great  opportunity.  Some 
made  a  rush  at  the  nuts  and  dried  figs,  others  preferred 
the  farinaceous  delicacies  at  the  cooked-provision  stalls 
—  delicacies  to  which  certain  four-footed  dogs  also, 
who  had  learned  to  take  kindly  to  Lenten  fare,  applied 
a  discriminating  nostril,  and  then  disappeared  with 
much  rapidity  under  the  nearest  shelter;  while  the 
mules,  not  without  some  kicking  and  plunging  among 
impeding  baskets,  were  stretching  their  muzzles  to- 
wards the  aromatic  green-meat. 

"Diavolo!"  said  Bratti,  as  he  and  his  companion 
came,  quite  unnoticed,  upon  the  noisy  scene;  "the 
[   23   ] 


ROMOLA 

Mercato  is  gone  as  mad  as  if  the  most  Holy  Father  had 
excommunicated  us  again.  I  must  know  what  this  is. 
But  never  fear:  it  seems  a  thousand  years  to  you  till 
you  see  the  pretty  Tessa,  and  get  your  cup  of  milk ;  but 
keep  hold  of  me,  and  I  '11  hold  to  my  bargain.  Remem- 
ber, I'm  to  have  the  first  bid  for  your  suit,  specially 
for  the  hose,  which,  with  all  their  stains,  are  the  best 
panno  di  garbo  —  as  good  as  ruined,  though,  with  mud 
and  weath^-stains." 

"Ola,  Monna  Trecca,"  Bratti  proceeded,  turning 
towards  an  old  woman  on  the  outside  of  the  nearest 
group,  who  for  the  moment  had  suspended  her  wail 
to  listen,  and  shouting  close  in  her  ear:  "Here  are  the 
mules  upsetting  all  your  bunches  of  parsley:  is  the 
world  coming  to  an  end,  then  ?  " 

"Monna  Trecca"  (equivalent  to  "Dame  Green- 
grocer") turned  round  at  this  unexpected  trumpeting 
in  her  right  ear,  with  a  half-fierce,  half-bewildered  look, 
first  at  the  speaker,  then  at  her  disarranged  commod- 
ities, and  then  at  the  speaker  again. 

"  A  bad  Easter  and  a  bad  year  to  you,  and  may  you 
die  by  the  sword!"  she  burst  out,  rushing  towards  her 
stall,  but  directing  this  first  volley  of  her  wrath  against 
Bratti,  who,  without  heeding  the  malediction,  quietly 
slipped  into  her  place,  within  hearing  of  the  narrative 
which  had  been  absorbing  her  attention;  making  a  sign  at 
the  same  time  to  the  younger  stranger  to  keep  near  him. 

"I  tell  you  I  saw  it  myself,"  said  a  fat  man,  with 

a  bunch  of  newly-purchased  leeks  in  his  hand.    "I  was 

in  Santa  Maria  Novella,  and  saw  it  myself.  The  woman 

started  up  and  threw  out  her  arms,  and  cried  out  and 

[  24   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

said  she  saw  a  big  bull  with  fiery  horns  coming  down 
on  the  church  to  crush  it.  I  saw  it  myself." 

"Saw  what,  Goro?"  said  a  man  of  slim  figure, 
whose  eye  twinkled  rather  roguishly.  He  wore  a  close 
jerkin,  a  skull-cap  lodged  carelessly  over  his  left  ear 
as  if  it  had  fallen  there  by  chance,  a  delicate  linen  apron 
tucked  up  on  one  side,  and  a  razor  stuck  in  his  belt. 
"  Saw  the  bull,  or  only  the  woman  ?  " 

"Why,  the  woman,  to  be  sure;  but  it's  all  one,  mi 
pare  ;  it  does  n't  alter  the  meaning  —  va! "  answered 
the  fat  man,  with  some  contempt. 

"Meaning?  no,  no;  that's  clear  enough,"  said  sev- 
eral voices  at  once,  and  then  followed  a  confusion  of 
tongues,  in  which  "  Lights  shooting  over  San  Lorenzo 
for  three  nights  together  "  —  "  Thunder  in  the  clear 
starlight "  —  "  Lantern  of  the  Duomo  struck  with  the 
sword  of  Saint  Michael "  —  "  Palle  " » —  «  AH  smashed  " 

—  "  Lions  tearing  each  other  to  pieces  "  —  "  Ah !  and  they 
might  well "  —  "  Boto  ^  caduto  in  Santissima  Nunziataf* 

—  "Died  like  the  best  of  Christians "  —  "  God  will 
have  pardoned  him "  —  were  often-repeated  phrases 
which  shot  across  each  other  like  storm-driven  hail- 
stones, each  speaker  feeling  rather  the  necessity  of 
utterance  than  of  finding  a  listener.  Perhaps  the  only 
silent  members  of  the  group  were  Bratti,  who,  as  a  new- 
comer, was  busy  in  mentally  piecing  together  the  flying 
fragments  of  information;  the  man  of  the  razor;  and 

*  Arms  of  the  Meclici. 

*  A  votive  image  of  Lorenzo,  in  wax,  hunf;  up  in  the  Church  of 
the  Annunziata,  supposed  to  have  fallen  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
Boio  is  popular  Tuscan  for  Voto, 

[   25    ] 


ROMOLA 

a  thin-lipped,  eager-looking  personage  in  spectacles, 
wearing  a  pen-and-ink  case  at  his  belt. 

"  Ebbene,  Nello,"  said  Bratti,  skirting  the  group  till 
he  was  within  hearing  of  the  barber.  "It  appears  the 
Magnifico  is  dead  —  rest  his  soul !  —  and  the  price  of 
wax  will  rise  ?  " 

"Even  as  you  say,"  answered  Nello;  and  then  added 
with  an  air  of  extra  gravity,  but  with  marvellous  rapid- 
ity, "and  his  waxen  image  in  the  Nunziata  fell  at  the 
same  moment,  they  say;  or  at  some  other  time,  when- 
ever it  pleases  the  Frati  Serviti,  who  know  best.  And 
several  cows  and  women  have  had  still-bom  calves  this 
Quaresima;  and  for  the  bad  eggs  that  have  been  broken 
since  the  Carnival,  nobody  has  counted  them.  Ah! 
a  great  man  —  a  great  politician  —  a  greater  poet  than 
Dante.  And  yet  the  cupola  did  n't  fall,  only  the  lan- 
tern. Che  miracolol" 

A  sharp  and  lengthened  "Pst!"  was  suddenly  heard 
darting  across  the  pelting  storm  of  gutturals.  It  came 
from  the  pale  man  in  spectacles,  and  had  the  effect  he 
intended ;  for  the  noise  ceased,  and  all  eyes  in  the  group 
were  fixed  on  him  with  a  look  of  expectation. 

"  'T  is  well  said  you  Florentines  are  blind,"  he  began, 
in  an  incisive  high  voice.  "It  appears  to  me  you  need 
nothing  but  a  diet  of  hay  to  make  cattle  of  you.  What! 
do  you  think  the  death  of  Lorenzo  is  the  scourge  God 
has  prepared  for  Florence?  Go!  you  are  sparrows 
chattering  praise  over  the  dead  hawk.  TMiat!  a  man 
who  was  trying  to  slip  a  noose  over  every  neck  in  the 
Republic  that  he  might  tighten  it  at  his  pleasure !  You 
like  that;  you  like  to  have  the  election  of  your  magis- 
[   26   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

trates  turned  into  closet-work,  and  no  man  to  use  the 
rights  of  a  citizen  unless  he  is  a  Medicean.  That  is 
what  is  meant  by  qualification  now:  netto  di  specchio^ 
no  longer  means  that  a  man  pays  his  dues  to  the  Re- 
public :  it  means  that  he  '11  wink  at  robbery  of  the 
people's  money  —  at  robbery  of  their  daughters'  dow- 
ries ;  that  he  '11  play  the  chamberer  and  the  philosopher 
by  turns  —  listen  to  bawdy  songs  at  the  Carnival  and 
cry  'Bellissimi!*  —  and  listen  to  sacred  lauds  and  cry 
again  'Bellissimi!'  But  this  is  what  you  love:  you 
grumble  and  raise  a  riot  over  your  quattrini  hianchi" 
(white  farthings) ;  "  but  you  take  no  notice  when  the 
public  treasury  has  got  a  hole  in  the  bottom  for  the  gold 
to  run  into  Lorenzo's  drains.  You  like  to  pay  for  foot- 
men to  walk  before  and  behind  one  of  your  citizens, 
that  he  may  be  affable  and  condescending  to  you.  '  See, 
what  a  tall  Pisan  we  keep,'  say  you,  'to  march  before 
him  with  the  drawn  sword  flashing  in  our  eyes !  —  and 
yet  Lorenzo  smiles  at  us.  What  goodness!'  And  you 
think  the  death  of  a  man,  who  would  soon  have  sad- 
dled and  bridled  you  as  the  Sforza  has  saddled  and 
bridled  Milan  —  you  think  his  death  is  the  scourge 
God  is  warning  you  of  by  portents.  I  tell  you  there  is 
another  sort  of  scourge  in  the  air." 

"Nay,  nay,  Ser  Cioni,  keep  astride  your  politics, 
and  never  mount  your  prophecy;  politics  is  the  better 
horse,"  said  Nello.  "But  if  you  talk  of  portents,  what 
portent  can  be  greater  than  a  pious  notary  ?  Balaam's 
ass  was  nothing  to  it." 

•  The  phrase  usee!  to  express  the  absence  of  disqualification  —  i.  «. 
the  not  being  entered  as  a  debtor  in  the  public  book  {specchio). 
[    27   ] 


ROMOLA 

**Ay,  but  a  notary  out  of  work,  with  his  inkbottle 
dry,"  said  another  bystander,  very  much  out  at  the 
elbows.  "Better  don  a  cowl  at  once,  Ser  Cioni;  every- 
body will  believe  in  your  fasting." 

The  notary  turned  and  left  the  group  with  a  look  of 
indignant  contempt,  disclosing,  as  he  did  so,  the  sal- 
low but  mild  face  of  a  short  man  who  had  been  stand- 
ing behind  him,  and  whose  bent  shoulders  told  of  some 
sedentary  occupation. 

"By  San  Giovanni,  though,"  said  the  fat  purchaser 
of  leeks,  with  the  air  of  a  person  rather  shaken  in  his 
theories,  "  I  am  not  sure  there  is  n't  some  truth  in  what 
Ser  Cioni  says.  For  I  know  I  have  good  reason  to  find 
fault  with  the  quattrini  hianchi  myself.  Grumble,  did 
he  say  ?  SuflFocation !  I  should  think  we  do  grumble;  and, 
let  anybody  say  the  word,  I  '11  turn  out  into  the  piazza 
with  the  readiest,  sooner  than  have  our  money  altered 
in  our  hands  as  if  the  magistracy  were  so  many  necro- 
mancers. And  it's  true  Lorenzo  might  have  hindered 
such  work  if  he  would  —  and  for  the  bull  with  the 
flaming  horns,  why,  as  Ser  Cioni  says,  there  may  be 
many  meanings  to  it,  for  the  matter  of  that;  it  may 
have  more  to  do  with  the  taxes  than  we  think.  For  when 
God  above  sends  a  sign,  it's  not  to  be  supposed  he'd 
have  only  one  meaning." 

"Spoken  like  an  oracle,  Goro!"  said  the  barber. 
"Why,  when  we  poor  mortals  can  pack  two  or  three 
meanings  into  one  sentence,  it  were  mere  blasphemy 
not  to  believe  that  your  miraculous  bull  means  every- 
thing that  any  man  in  Florence  likes  it  to  mean." 

"Thou  art  pleased  to  scoff,  Nello,"  said  the  sallow, 
[   28   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

round-shouldered  man,  no  longer  eclipsed  by  the  not- 
ary, "  but  it  is  not  the  less  true  that  every  revelation, 
whether  by  visions,  dreams,  portents,  or  the  written 
word,  has  many  meanings,  which  it  is  given  to  the 
illuminated  only  to  unfold." 

"Assuredly,"  answered  Nello.  "Haven't  I  been 
to  hear  the  Frate  in  San  Lorenzo?  But  then,  I've 
been  to  hear  Fra  Menico  in  the  Duomo,  too;  and  ac- 
cording to  him,  your  Fra  Girolamo,  with  his  visions 
and  interpretations,  is  running  after  the  wind  of 
Mongibello,  and  those  who  follow  him  are  like  to  have 
the  fate  of  certain  swine  that  ran  headlong  into  the  sea 
—  or  some  hotter  place.  With  San  Domenico  roaring 
^  vero  in  one  year,  and  San  Francisco  screaming  efalso 
in  the  other,  what  is  a  poor  barber  to  do  —  unless  he 
were  illuminated  ?  But  it 's  plain  our  Goro  here  is 
beginning  to  be  illuminated,  for  he  already  sees  that 
the  bull  with  the  flaming  horns  means  first  himself,  and 
secondly  all  the  other  aggrieved  taxpayers  of  Florence, 
who  are  determined  to  gore  the  magistracy  on  the  first 
opportunity." 

"Goro  is  a  fool!"  said  a  bass  voice,  with  a  note 
that  dropped  like  the  sound  of  a  great  bell  in  the  midst 
of  much  tinkling.  "Let  him  carry  home  his  leeks 
and  shake  his  flanks  over  his  wool-beating.  He'll 
mend  matters  more  that  way  than  by  showing  his 
tun-shaped  body  in  the  piazza,  as  if  everybody  might 
measure  his  grievances  by  the  size  of  his  paunch.  The 
burdens  that  harm  him  most  are  his  heavy  carcass  and 
his  idleness." 

The  speaker  had  joined  the  group  only  in  time  to 

[   29   ] 


ROMOLA 

hear  the  conclusion  of  Nello's  speech,  but  he  was 
one  of  those  figures  for  whom  all  the  world  instinct- 
ively makes  way,  as  it  would  for  a  battering-ram. 
He  was  not  much  above  the  middle  height,  but  the 
impression  of  enormous  force  which  was  conveyed 
by  his  capacious  chest  and  brawny  arms  bared  to  the 
shoulder,  was  deepened  by  the  keen  sense  and  quiet 
resolution  expressed  in  his  glance  and  in  every  furrow 
of  his  cheek  and  brow.  He  had  often  been  an  uncon- 
scious model  to  Domenico  Ghirlandajo,  when  that  great 
painter  was  making  the  walls  of  the  churches  reflect 
the  life  of  Florence,  and  translating  pale  aerial  tradi- 
tions into  the  deep  colour  and  strong  lines  of  the  faces 
he  knew.  The  naturally  dark  tint  of  his  skin  was 
additionally  bronzed  by  the  same  powdery  deposit  that 
gave  a  polished  black  surface  to  his  leathern  apron:  a 
deposit  which  habit  had  probably  made  a  necessary 
condition  of  perfect  ease,  for  it  was  not  washed  of! 
with  punctilious  regularity. 

Goro  turned  his  fat  cheek  and  glassy  eye  on  the 
frank  speaker  with  a  look  of  deprecation  rather  than 
of  resentment. 

"Why,  Niccolo,"  he  said,  in  an  injured  tone,  "I've 
heard  you  sing  to  another  tune  than  that,  often  enough, 
when  you've  been  laying  down  the  law  at  San  Gallo 
on  a  festa.  I  've  heard  you  say  yourself  that  a  man 
was  n't  a  mill-wheel,  to  be  on  the  grind,  grind,  as 
long  as  he  was  driven,  and  then  stick  in  his  place 
without  stirring  when  the  water  was  low.  And  you  're 
as  fond  of  your  vote  as  any  man  in  Florence  —  ay, 
and  I  've  heard  you  say,  if  Lorenzo  — " 
[   30   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Niccolo.  "Don't  you  be  bring- 
ing up  my  speeches  again  after  you've  swallowed 
them,  and  handing  them  about  as  if  they  were  none 
the  worse.  I  vote  and  I  speak  when  there's  any  use 
in  it:  if  there's  hot  metal  on  the  anvil,  I  lose  no  time 
before  I  strike ;  but  I  don't  spend  good  hours  in  tinkling 
on  cold  iron,  or  in  standing  on  the  pavement  as  thou 
dost,  Goro,  with  snout  upward,  like  a  pig  under  an 
oak  tree.  And  as  for  Lorenzo  —  dead  and  gone  before 
his  time  —  he  was  a  man  who  had  an  eye  for  curious 
ironwork;  and  if  anybody  says  he  wanted  to  make 
himself  a  tyrant,  I  say, '  Sia;  I  '11  not  deny  which  way  the 
wind  blows  when  every  man  can  see  the  weathercock.* 
But  that  only  means  that  Lorenzo  was  a  crested  hawk, 
and  there  are  plenty  of  hawks  without  crests  whose 
claws  and  beaks  are  as  good  for  tearing.  Though  if 
there  was  any  chance  of  a  real  reform,  so  that  Mar- 
zocco  *  might  shake  his  mane  and  roar  again,  instead  of 
dipping  his  head  to  lick  the  feet  of  anybody  that  will 
mount  and  ride  him,  I  'd  strike  a  good  blow  for  it." 

And  that  reform  is  not  far  oflF,  Niccolo,"  said  the 
sallow,  mild-faced  man,  seizing  his  opportunity  like 
a  missionary  among  the  too  light-minded  heathens; 
"for  a  time  of  tribulation  is  coming,  and  the  scourge 
is  at  hand.  And  when  the  Church  is  purged  of  cardi- 
nals and  prelates  who  traflSc  in  her  inheritance,  that 
their  hands  may  be  full  to  pay  the  price  of  blood  and 
to  satisfy  their  own  lusts,  the  State  will  be  purged  too 
—  and  Florence  will  be  purged  of  men  who  love  to 
see  avarice  and   lechery  under  the  red  hat  and  the 

*  The  stone  Lion,  emblem  of  the  Republic. 
[   31    ] 


ROMOLA 

mitre  because  it  gives  them  the  screen  of  a  more  hell- 
ish vice  than  their  own." 

"Ay,  as  Goro's  broad  body  would  be  a  screen  for 
my  narrow  person  in  case  of  missiles,"  said  Nello; 
"but  if  that  excellent  screen  happened  to  fall  I  were 
stifled  under  it,  surely  enough.  That  is  no  bad  image 
of  thine,  Nanni  —  or,  rather,  of  the  Frate's;  for  I  fancy 
there  is  no  room  in  the  small  cup  of  thy  understanding 
for  any  other  liquor  than  what  he  pours  into  it." 

"And  it  were  well  for  thee,  Nello,"  replied  Nanni, 
"if  thou  couldst  empty  thyself  of  thy  scoffs  and  thy 
jests,  and  take  in  that  liquor  too.  The  warning  is 
ringing  in  the  ears  of  all  men:  and  it's  no  new  story; 
for  the  Abbot  Joachim  prophesied  of  the  coming  time 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  now  Fra  Girolamo  has  got 
the  message  afresh.  He  has  seen  it  in  a  vision,  even 
as  the  prophets  of  old:  he  has  seen  the  sword  hanging 
from  the  sky." 

"Ay,  and  thou  wilt  see  it  thyself,  Nanni,  if  thou 
wilt  stare  upward  long  enough,"  said  Niccolo;  "for 
that  pitiable  tailor's  work  of  thine  makes  thy  noddle 
so  overhang  thy  legs,  that  thy  eyeballs  can  see  nought 
above  the  stitching-board  but  the  roof  of  thy  own  skull." 

The  honest  tailor  bore  the  jest  without  bitterness, 
bent  on  convincing  his  hearers  of  his  doctrine  rather 
than  of  his  dignity.  But  Niccolo  gave  him  no  oppor- 
tunity for  replying;  for  he  turned  away  to  the  pursuit 
of  his  market  business,  probably  considering  further 
dialogue  as  a  tinkling  on  cold  iron. 

"  Ebbene"  said  the  man  with  the  hose  round  his 
neck,  who  had  lately  migrated  from  another  knot  of  talk- 
[   32   ] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER 

ers,  "  they  are  safest  who  cross  themselves  and  jest  at  no- 
body.  Do  you  know  that  the  Magnifico  sent  for  the 
Frate  at  the  last,  and  could  n't  die  without  his  blessing  ?  " 

"  Was  it  so  —  in  truth  ? "  said  several  voices.  "  Yes, 
yes — God  will  have  pardoned  him."  "He  died  like 
the  best  of  Christians."  "Never  took  his  eyes  from  the 
holy  crucifix." 

"  And  the  Frate  will  have  given  him  his  blessing  ?  " 

"Well,  I  know  no  more,"  said  he  of  the  hosen; 
"only  Guccio  there  met  a  footman  going  back  to 
Careggi,  and  he  told  him  the  Frate  had  been  sent  for 
yesternight,  after  the  Magnifico  had  confessed  and  had 
the  holy  sacraments." 

"It's  likely  enough  the  Frate  will  tell  the  people 
something  about  it  in  his  sermon  this  morning;  is  it 
not  true,  Nanni?"  said  Goro.   "What  do  you  think?" 

But  Nanni  had  already  turned  his  back  on  Goro, 
and  the  group  was  rapidly  thinning;  some  being  stirred 
by  the  impulse  to  go  and  hear  "new  things"  from 
the  Frate  ("  new  things  "  were  the  nectar  of  Florentines) ; 
others  by  the  sense  that  it  was  time  to  attend  to  their 
private  business.  In  this  general  movement,  Bratti  got 
close  to  the  barber,  and  said,  — 

"Nello,  you've  a  ready  tongue  of  your  own,  and 
are  used  to  worming  secrets  out  of  people  when  you  've 
once  got  them  well  lathered.  I  picked  up  a  stranger 
this  morning  as  I  was  coming  in  from  Rovezzano, 
and  I  can  spell  him  out  no  better  than  I  can  the  letters 
on  that  scarf  I  bought  from  the  French  cavalier.  It 
is  n't  my  wits  are  at  fault,  —  I  want  no  man  to  help 
me  tell  peas  from  paternosters,  —  but  when  you  come 
[   33   ] 


ROMOLA 

to  foreign  fashions,  a  fool  may  happen  to  know  more 
than  a  wise  man." 

"Ay,  thou  hast  the  wisdom  of  Midas,  who  could 
turn  rags  and  rusty  nails  into  gold,  even  as  thou  dost," 
said  Nello,  "  and  he  had  also  something  of  the  ass  about 
him.    But  where  is  thy  bird  of  strange  plumage  ?  " 

Bratti  was  looking  round,  with  an  air  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Diavolo!"  he  said,  with  some  vexation.  "The 
bird  's  flown.  It 's  true  he  was  hungry,  and  I  forgot 
him.  But  we  shall  find  him  in  the  Mercato,  within 
scent  of  bread  and  savours,  I  '11  answer  for  him." 

"  Let  us  make  the  round  of  the  Mercato,  then,"  said 
Nello. 

"  It  is  n't  his  feathers  that  puzzle  me,"  continued 
Bratti,  as  they  pushed  their  way  together.  "There 
is  n't  much  in  the  way  of  cut  and  cloth  on  this  side 
the  Holy  Sepulchre  that  can  puzzle  a  Florentine." 

"Or  frighten  him  either,"  said  Nello,  "after  he  has 
seen  an  Englander  or  a  German." 

"No,  no,"  said  Bratti,  cordially;  "one  may  never  lose 
sight  of  the  Cupola  and  yet  know  the  world,  I  hope. 
Besides,  this  stranger's  clothes  are  good  Italian  mer- 
chandise, and  the  hose  he  wears  were  dyed  in  Ognis- 
santi  before  ever  they  were  dyed  with  salt  water,  as  he 
says.   But  the  riddle  about  him  is  —  " 

Here  Bratti's  explanation  was  interrupted  by  some 
jostling  as  they  reached  one  of  the  entrances  of  the 
piazza,  and  before  he  could  resume  it  they  had  caught 
sight  of  the  enigmatical  object  they  were  in  search  oi 


CHAPTER  n 
A  BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE 

AFTER  Bratti  had  joined  the  knot  of  talkers,  the 
young  stranger,  hopeless  of  learning  what  was 
the  cause  of  the  general  agitation,  and  not  much  caring 
to  know  what  was  probably  of  little  interest  to  any  but 
bom  Florentines,  soon  became  tired  of  waiting  for 
Bratti's  escort;  and  chose  to  stroll  round  the  piazza, 
looking  out  for  some  vendor  of  eatables  who  might 
happen  to  have  less  than  the  average  curiosity  about 
public  news.  But  as  if  at  the  suggestion  of  a  sudden 
thought,  he  thrust  his  hand  into  a  purse  or  wallet  that 
hung  at  his  waist,  and  explored  it  again  and  again 
with  a  look  of  fi-ustration. 

"Not  an  obolus,  by  Jupiter!"  he  murmered,  in  a 
language  which  was  not  Tuscan  or  even  Italian.  "I 
thought  I  had  one  poor  piece  left.  I  must  get  my  break- 
fast for  love,  then ! " 

He  had  not  gone  many  steps  farther  before  it  seemed 
likely  that  he  had  found  a  quarter  of  the  market  where 
that  medium  of  exchange  might  not  be  rejected. 

In  a  comer,  away  from  any  group  of  talkers,  two 
mules  were  standing,  well  adorned  with  red  tassels  and 
collars.  One  of  them  carried  wooden  milk-vessels, 
the  other  a  pair  of  panniers  filled  with  herbs  and  salads. 
Resting  her  elbow  on  the  neck  of  the  mule  that  carried 
the  milk,  there  leaned  a  young  girl,  apparently  not 
[  35   ] 


ROMOLA 

more  than  sixteen,  with  a  red  hood  surrounding  her 
face,  which  was  all  the  more  baby-like  in  its  prettiness 
from  the  entire  concealment  of  her  hair.  The  poor 
child,  perhaps,  was  weary  after  her  labour  in  the  morn- 
ing twilight  in  preparation  for  her  walk  to  market  from 
some  castello  three  or  four  miles  off,  for  she  seemed 
to  have  gone  to  sleep  in  that  half-standing,  half-leaning 
posture.  Nevertheless,  our  stranger  had  no  compunc- 
tion in  awaking  her;  but  the  means  he  chose  were  so 
gentle,  that  it  seemed  to  the  damsel  in  her  dream  as  if 
a  little  sprig  of  thyme  had  touched  her  lips  while  she 
was  stooping  to  gather  the  herbs.  The  dream  was 
broken,  however,  for  she  opened  her  blue  baby-eyes, 
and  started  up  with  astonishment  and  confusion  to 
see  the  young  stranger  standing  close  before  her.  She 
heard  him  speaking  to  her  in  a  voice  which  seemed  so 
strange  and  soft,  that  even  if  she  had  been  more  col- 
lected she  would  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  said 
something  hopelessly  unintelligible  to  her,  and  her 
first  movement  was  to  turn  her  head  a  little  away,  and 
lift  up  a  corner  of  her  green  serge  mantle  as  a  screen. 
He  repeated  his  words,  — 

"Forgive  me,  pretty  one,  for  awaking  you.  I'm 
dying  with  hunger,  and  the  scent  of  milk  makes 
breakfast  seem  more  desirable  than  ever." 

He  had  chosen  the  words  "muoio  difame"  because 
he  knew  they  would  be  familiar  to  her  ears;  and  he 
had  uttered  them  playfully,  with  the  intonation  of  a 
mendicant.  This  time  he  was  understood;  the  corner 
of  the  mantle  was  dropped,  and  in  a  few  moments  a 
large  cup  of  fragrant  milk  was  held  out  to  him.  He  paid 
[   36   ] 


A  BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE 

no  further  compliments  before  raising  it  to  his  h'ps, 
and  while  he  was  drinking,  the  little  maiden  found 
courage  to  look  up  at  the  long  dark  curls  of  this  sin- 
gular-voiced stranger,  who  had  asked  for  food  in  the 
tones  of  a  beggar,  but  who,  though  his  clothes  were 
much  damaged,  was  unlike  any  beggar  she  had  ever 
seen. 

While  this  process  of  survey  was  going  on,  there  was 
another  current  of  feeling  that  carried  her  hand  into 
a  bag  which  hung  by  the  side  of  the  mule,  and  when 
the  stranger  set  down  his  cup,  he  saw  a  large  piece  of 
bread  held  out  towards  him,  and  caught  a  glance  of 
the  blue  eyes  that  seemed  intended  as  an  encourage- 
ment to  him  to  take  this  additional  gift. 

"But  perhaps  that  is  your  own  breakfast,"  he  said. 
"No,  I  have  had  enough  without  payment.  A  thou- 
sand thanks,  my  gentle  one." 

There  was  no  rejoinder  in  words;  but  the  piece  of 
bread  was  pushed  a  little  nearer  to  him,  as  if  in  im- 
patience at  his  refusal ;  and  as  the  long  dark  eyes  of  the 
stranger  rested  on  the  baby-face,  it  seemed  to  be  gath- 
ering more  and  more  courage  to  look  up  and  meet 
them. 

"Ah,  then,  if  I  must  take  the  bread,"  he  said,  laying 
his  hand  on  it,  "I  shall  get  bolder  still,  and  beg  for 
another  kiss  to  make  the  bread  sweeter." 

His  speech  was  getting  wonderfully  intelligible  in 
spite  of  the  strange  voice,  which  had  at  first  almost 
seemed  a  thing  to  make  her  cross  herself.  She  blushed 
deeply,  and  lifted  up  a  comer  of  her  mantle  to  her 
mouth  again.  But  just  as  the  too  presumptuous 
[   37   ] 


ROMOLA 

stranger  was  leaning  fon;\'ard,  and  had  his  fingers  on 
the  arm  that  held  up  the  screening  mantle,  he  was 
startled  to  hear  a  harsh  voice  close  upon  his  ear. 

"  Who  are  you  —  with  a  murrain  to  you  ?  No  honest 
buyer,  I  '11  warrant,  but  a  hanger-on  of  the  dicers  — 
or  something  worse.  Go!  dance  off,  and  find  fitter 
company,  or  I'll  give  you  a  tune  to  a  little  quicker 
time  than  you  '11  like." 

The  young  stranger  drew  back  and  looked  at  the 
speaker  with  a  glance  provokingly  free  from  alarm 
and  deprecation,  and  his  slight  expression  of  saucy 
amusement  broke  into  a  broad  beaming  smile  as  he 
surveyed  the  figure  of  his  threatener.  She  was  a  stout 
but  brawny  woman,  with  a  man's  jerkin  slipped  over 
her  green  serge  gamurra  or  gown,  and  the  peaked  hood 
of  some  departed  mantle  fastened  around  her  sun- 
burnt face,  which,  under  all  its  coarseness  and  pre- 
mature wrinkles,  showed  a  half-sad,  half-ludicrous 
maternal  resemblance  to  the  tender  baby-face  of  the 
little  maiden  —  the  sort  of  resemblance  which  often 
seems  a  more  croaking,  shudder-creating  prophecy 
than  that  of  the  death's-head. 

There  was  something  irresistibly  propitiating  in  that 
bright  young  smile,  but  Monna  Gliita  was  not  a  woman 
to  betray  any  weakness,  and  she  went  on  speaking, 
apparently  with  heightened  exasperation. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  can  grin  as  well  as  other  monkeys 
in  cap  and  jerkin.  You're  a  minstrel  or  a  mountebank, 
I  '11  be  sworn ;  you  look  for  all  the  world  as  silly  as 
a  tumbler  when  he  's  been  upside  down  and  has  got  on 
his  heels  again.  And  what  fool's  tricks  hast  thou  been 
[   38   ] 


A  BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE 

after,  Tessa?"  she  added,  turning  to  her  daughter, 
"whose  frightened  face  was  more  inviting  to  abuse. 
"Giving  away  the  milk  and  victuals,  it  seems;  ay,  ay, 
thou  'dst  carry  water  in  thy  ears  for  any  idle  vagabond 
that  did  n't  like  to  stoop  for  it,  thou  silly  staring  rabbit ! 
Turn  thy  back,  and  lift  the  herbs  out  of  the  panniers, 
else  I  '11  make  thee  say  a  few  Aves  without  counting." 

"Nay,  Madonna,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  plead- 
ing smile,  "don't  be  angry  with  your  pretty  Tessa  for 
taking  pity  on  a  hungry  traveller,  who  found  himself 
unexpectedly  without  a  quattrino.  Your  handsome 
face  looks  so  well  when  it  frowns,  that  I  long  to  see  it 
illuminated  by  a  smile." 

"  Va  via  !  I  know  what  paste  you  are  made  of.  You 
may  tickle  me  with  that  straw  a  good  long  while  before 
I  shall  laugh,  I  can  tell  you.  Get  along,  with  a  bad 
Easter!  else  I'll  make  a  beauty-spot  or  two  on  that 
face  of  yours  that  shall  spoil  your  kissing  on  this  side 
Advent." 

As  Monna  Ghita  lifted  her  formidable  talons  by 
way  of  complying  with  the  first  and  last  requisite  of 
eloquence,  Bratti,  who  had  come  up  a  minute  or  two 
before,  had  been  saying  to  his  companion,  "What 
think  you  of  this  pretty  parrot,  Nello  ?  Does  n't  his 
tongue  smack  of  Venice  ?  " 

"Nay,  Bratti,"  said  the  barber  in  an  undertone, 
"thy  wisdom  has  much  of  the  ass  in  it,  as  1  told  thee 
just  now;  especially  about  the  ears.  This  stranger  is  a 
Greek,  else  I  'm  not  the  barber  who  has  had  the  sole  and 
exclusive  shaving  of  the  excellent  Demetrio,  and  drawn 
more  than  one  sorry  tooth  from  his  learned  jaw.  And 
.     [   39   ] 


ROMOLA 

this  youth  might  be  taken  to  have  come  straight  from 
Olympus  —  at  least  when  he  has  had  a  touch  of  my 
razor." 

"  Orsu  I  Monna  Ghita ! "  continued  Nello,  not  sorry 
to  see  some  sport;  "what  has  happened  to  cause  such 
a  thunderstorm  ?  Has  this  young  stranger  been  misbe- 
having himself  ?  " 

"By  San  Giovanni!"  said  the  cautious  Bratti,  who 
had  not  shaken  off  his  original  suspicions  concerning 
the  shabbily-clad  possessor  of  jewels,  "he  did  right  to 
run  away  from  me,  if  he  meant  to  get  into  mischief. 
I  can  swear  that  I  found  him  under  the  Loggia  de' 
Cerchi,  with  a  ring  on  his  finger  such  as  I  've  seen  worn 
by  Bernardo  Rucellai  himself.  Not  another  rusty  nail's 
worth  do  I  know  about  him." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Nello,  eyeing  the  stranger  good- 
humouredly,  "this  hello  giovane  has  been  a  little  too 
presumptuous  in  admiring  the  charms  of  Monna  Ghita, 
and  has  attempted  to  kiss  her  while  her  daughter's  back 
is  turned ;  for  I  observe  that  the  pretty  Tessa  is  too  busy 
to  look  this  way  at  present.  Was  it  not  so,  Messer?" 
Nello  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  courtesy. 

"You  have  divined  the  offence  like  a  soothsayer," 
said  the  stranger,  laughingly.  "Only  that  I  had  not 
the  good  fortune  to  find  INIonna  Ghita  here  at  first.  I 
bogged  a  cup  of  milk  from  her  daughter,  and  had  ac- 
cepted this  gift  of  bread,  for  which  I  was  making  a  hum- 
ble offering  of  gratitude,  before  I  had  the  higher  pleasure 
of  being  face  to  face  with  these  riper  charms  which  I 
was  perhaps  too  bold  in  admiring." 

"  Fa,  va!  be  ofiF,  every  one  of  you,  and  stay  in  purga- 
[   40   ] 


A  BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE 

tory  till  I  pay  to  get  you  out,  will  you  ? "  said  Monna 
Ghita,  fiercely,  elbowing  Nello,  and  leading  forward 
her  mule  so  as  to  compel  the  stranger  to  jump  aside. 
"Tessa,  thou  simpleton,  bring  forward  thy  mule  a  bit: 
the  cart  will  be  upon  us." 

As  Tessa  turned  to  take  the  mule's  bridle,  she  cast 
one  timid  glance  at  the  stranger,  who  was  now  moving 
with  Nello  out  of  the  way  of  an  approaching  market- 
cart;  and  the  glance  was  just  long  enough  to  seize  the 
beckoning  movement  of  his  hand,  which  indicated  that 
he  had  been  watching  for  this  opportunity  of  an  adieu. 

"  Ebbeiie,"  said  Bratti,  raising  his  voice  to  speak 
across  the  cart;  "I  leave  you  with  Nello,  young  man, 
for  there 's  no  pushing  my  bag  and  basket  any  farther, 
and  I  have  business  at  home.  But  you  '11  remember  our 
bargain,  because  if  you  found  Tessa  without  me,  it 
was  not  my  fault.  Nello  will  show  you  my  shop  in  the 
Ferravecchi,  and  I'll  not  turn  my  back  on  you." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  friend!"  said  the  stranger, 
laughing,  and  then  turned  away  with  Nello  up  the 
narrow  street  which  led  most  directly  to  the  Piazza  del 
Duomo. 


CHAPTER  in 
THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  young  stranger  to 
Nello,  as  they  got  a  little  clearer  of  the  entangled 
vehicles  and  mules,  "  I  am  not  sorry  to  be  handed  over 
by  that  patron  of  mine  to  one  who  has  a  less  barbarous 
accent,  and  a  less  enigmatical  business.  Is  it  a  common 
thing  among  you  Florentines  for  an  itinerant  trafficker 
in  broken  glass  and  rags  to  talk  of  a  shop  where  he 
sells  lutes  and  swords  ?  " 

"  Common  ?  No :  our  Bratti  is  not  a  common  man. 
He  has  a  theory,  and  lives  up  to  it,  which  is  more  than 
I  can  say  for  any  philosopher  I  have  the  honour  of 
shaving,"  answered  Nello,  whose  loquacity,  like  an 
over-full  bottle,  could  never  pour  forth  a  small  dose. 
"  Bratti  means  to  extract  the  utmost  possible  amount  of 
pleasure,  that  is  to  say,  of  hard  bargaining,  out  of  this 
life;  winding  it  up  with  a  bargain  for  the  easiest  possible 
passage  through  purgatory,  by  giving  Holy  Church  his 
winnings  when  the  game  is  over.  He  has  had  his  will 
made  to  that  effect  on  the  cheapest  terms  a  notary'  could 
be  got  for.  But  I  have  often  said  to  him,  'Bratti,  thy 
bargain  is  a  limping  one,  and  thou  art  on  the  lame  side 
of  it.  Does  it  not  make  thee  a  little  sad  to  look  at  the 
pictures  of  the  Paradiso  ?  Thou  wilt  never  be  able  there 
to  chaffer  for  rags  and  rusty  nails :  the  saints  and  angels 
want  neither  pins  nor  tinder;  and  except  w'i\h  San  Bar- 
[   42   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

tolommeo,  who  carries  his  skin  about  in  an  inconvenient 
manner,  I  see  no  chance  of  thy  making  a  bargain  for 
second-hand  clothing.'  But,  God  pardon  me,"  added 
Nello,  changing  his  tone,  and  crossing  himself,  "this 
light  talk  ill  beseems  a  morning  when  Lorenzo  lies  dead, 
and  the  Muses  are  tearing  their  hair  —  always  a  pain- 
ful thought  to  a  barber;  and  you  yourself,  Mcssere,  are 
probably  under  a  cloud,  for  when  a  man  of  your  speech 
and  presence  takes  up  with  so  sorry  a  night's  lodging, 
it  argues  some  misfortune  to  have  befallen  him." 

"  What  Lorenzo  is  that  whose  death  you  speak  of  ?  '* 
said  the  stranger,  appearing  to  have  dwelt  with  too 
anxious  an  interest  on  this  point  to  have  noticed  the 
indirect  inquiry  that  followed  it, 

"  What  Ixjrenzo  ?  There  is  but  one  Lorenzo,  I  imag- 
ine, whose  death  could  throw  the  Mercato  into  an  up- 
roar, set  the  lantern  of  the  Duomo  leaping  in  despera- 
tion, and  cause  the  lions  of  the  Republic  to  feel  under  an 
immediate  necessity  to  devour  one  another.  I  mean 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  the  Pericles  of  our  Athens  —  if  I 
may  make  such  a  comparison  in  the  ear  of  a  Greek." 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  the  other,  laughingly;  " for  I  doubt 
whetlier  Athens,  even  in  the  days  of  Pericles,  could  have 
produced  so  learned  a  barber." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken,"  said 
the  rapid  Nello,  "  else  I  have  shaved  the  venerable  Dem- 
etrio  Calcondila  to  little  purpose;  but,  pardon  me,  I  am 
lost  in  wonder:  your  Italian  is  better  than  his,  though  he 
has  been  in  Italy  forty  years  —  better  even  than  that  of 
the  accomplished  MaruUo,  who  may  be  said  to  have 
married  the  Italic  Muse  in  more  senses  than  one,  since 
[   43   ] 


ROMOLA 

he  has  married  our  learned  and  lovely  Alessandra 
Scala." 

"  It  will  lighten  your  wonder  to  know  that  I  come  of 
a  Greek  stock  planted  in  Italian  soil  much  longer  than 
the  mulberry-trees  which  have  taken  so  kindly  to  it.  I 
was  born  at  Bari,  and  my  —  I  mean,  I  was  brought  up 
by  an  Italian  —  and,  in  fact,  I  am  a  Greek,  very  much 
as  your  peaches  are  Persian.  The  Greek  dye  was  sub- 
dued in  me,  I  suppose,  till  I  had  been  dipped  over  again 
by  long  abode  and  much  travel  in  the  land  of  gods  and 
heroes.  And,  to  confess  something  of  my  private  affairs 
to  you,  this  same  Greek  dye,  with  a  few  ancient  gems 
I  have  about  me,  is  the  only  fortune  shipwreck  has  left 
me.  But  —  when  the  towers  fall,  you  know  it  is  an  ill 
business  for  the  small  nest-builders  —  the  death  of  your 
Pericles  makes  me  wish  I  had  rather  turned  my  steps 
towards  Rome,  as  I  should  have  done  but  for  a  fallacious 
Minerva  in  the  shape  of  an  Augustinian  monk.  'At 
Rome,'  he  said,  '  you  will  be  lost  in  a  crowd  of  hungry 
scholars;  but  at  Florence,  every  corner  is  penetrated  by 
the  sunshine  of  Lorenzo's  patronage:  Florence  is  the 
best  market  in  Italy  for  such  commodities  as  yours. 

"Gnajfe,  and  so  it  will  remain,  I  hope,"  said  Nello. 
"  Lorenzo  was  not  the  only  patron  and  judge  of  learning 
in  our  city  —  heaven  forbid!  Because  he  was  a  large 
melon,  every  other  Florentine  is  not  a  pumpkin,  I  sup- 
pose. Have  we  not  Bernardo  Rucellai,  and  Alamanno 
Rinuccini,  and  plenty  more  ?  And  if  you  want  to  be 
informed  on  such  matters,  I,  Nello,  am  your  man. 
It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  till  I  can  be  of  serv- 
ice to  a  bel  erudiio  like  yourself.  And,  first  of  all,  in 
[   44   ] 


THE   BARBER'S  SHOP 

the  matter  of  your  hair.  That  beard,  my  fine  young  man, 
must  be  parted  vn\}u  were  it  as  dear  to  you  as  the  nymph 
of  your  dreams.  Here  at  Florence,  we  love  not  to  see  a 
man  with  his  nose  projecting  over  a  cascade  of  hair.  But, 
remember,  you  will  have  passed  the  Rubicon,  when  once 
you  have  been  shaven :  if  you  repent,  and  let  your  beard 
grow  after  it  has  acr^uired  stoutness  by  a  struggle  with 
the  razor,  your  mouth  will  by  and  by  show  no  longer 
what  Messer  Angelo  calls  the  divine  prerogative  of  lips, 
but  will  appear  like  a  dark  cavern  fringed  with  horrent 
brambles." 

"That  is  a  terrible  prophecy,"  said  the  Greek,  "es- 
pecially if  your  Florentine  maidens  are  many  of  them  as 
pretty  as  the  little  Tessa  I  stole  a  kiss  from  this  morning." 

"  Tessa  ?  she  is  a  rough-handed  contadina :  you  will 
rise  into  the  favour  of  dames  who  bring  no  scent  of  the 
mule-stables  with  them.  But  to  that  end,  you  must  not 
have  the  air  of  a  sgherro,  or  a  man  of  evil  repute:  you 
must  look  like  a  courtier,  and  a  scholar  of  the  more  pol- 
bhed  sort,  such  as  our  Pietro  Crinito  —  like  one  who 
sins  among  well-bred,  well-fed  people,  and  not  one  who 
sucks  down  vile  vitio  di  sotto  in  a  chance  tavern." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  stranger.  "  If  the  Flor- 
entine Graces  demand  it,  I  am  willing  to  give  up  this 
small  matter  of  my  beard,  but  —  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Nello.  "I  know  what  you 
would  say.  It  is  the  bella  zazzera  —  the  hyacinthine 
locks  — you  do  not  choose  to  part  with;  and  there  is  no 
need.  Just  a  little  pruning  —  ecco !  —  and  vou  will  look 
not  unUke  the  illustrious  Prince  Pico  di  Mirandola  in 
his  prime.  And  here  we  are  in  good  time  in  the  Piazzo 
[   45    ] 


ROMOLA 

San  Giovanni,  and  at  the  door  of  my  shop.  But  you 
are  pausing,  I  see :  naturally,  you  want  to  look  at  our 
wonder  of  the  world,  our  Duomo,  our  Santa  Maria 
del  Fiore.  Well,  well,  a  mere  glance ;  but  I  beseech  you 
to  leave  a  closer  survey  till  you  have  been  shaved :  I  am 
quivering  with  the  inspiration  of  my  art  even  to  the 
very  edge  of  my  razor.   Ah,  then,  come  round  this  way." 

The  mercurial  l)arber  seized  the  arm  of  the  stranger, 
and  led  him  to  a  point,  on  the  soutli  side  of  the  piazza, 
from  which  he  could  see  at  once  the  huge  dark  shell 
of  the  cupola,  the  slender  soaring  grace  of  Giotto's 
campanile,  and  the  quaint  octagon  of  San  Giovanni  in 
front  of  them,  showing  its  unique  gates  of  storied 
bronze,  which  still  bore  the  somewhat  dimmed  glory 
of  their  original  gilding.  The  inlaid  marbles  were  then 
fresher  in  their  pink,  and  white,  and  purple,  than  they 
are  now,  when  the  winters  of  four  centuries  have 
turned  their  white  to  the  rich  ochre  of  well-mellowed 
meerschaum;  the  fa9ade  of  the  cathedral  did  not  stand 
ignominious  in  faded  stucco,  but  had  upon  it  the  mag- 
nificent promise  of  the  half-completed  marble  inlaying 
and  statued  niches,  which  Giotto  had  devised  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  before;  and  as  the  campanile  in  all  its 
harmonious  variety  of  colour  and  form  led  the  eyes  up- 
ward, high  into  the  clear  air  of  this  April  morning,  it 
seemed  a  prophetic  s}-mbol,  telling  that  human  life 
must  somehow  and  sometime  shape  itself  into  accord 
with  that  pure  aspiring  beauty. 

But  fliis  was  not  the  impression  it  appeared  to  pro- 
duce on  the  Greek.  His  eyes  were  irresistibly  led  up- 
ward, but  as  he  stood  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  curls 
[   46   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

falling  backward,  there  was  a  slight  touch  of  scorn  on  his 
lip,  and  when  his  eves  fell  again  they  glanced  round 
with  a  scanning  coolness  which  was  rather  piquing  to 
Nello's  Florentine  spirit. 

"  Well,  my  fine  young  man,"  he  said,  with  some  im- 
patience, "  you  seem  to  make  as  little  of  our  Cathedral 
as  if  you  were  the  Angel  Gabriel  c-ome  straight  from  Par- 
adise. I  should  like  to  know  if  you  have  ever  seen  finer 
work  than  our  Giotto's  tower,  or  any  cupola  that  would 
not  look  a  mere  mushroom  by  the  side  of  Brunelleschi's 
there,  or  any  marbles  finer  or  more  cunningly  wrought 
than  these  that  our  Signoria  got  from  far-off  quarries, 
at  a  price  that  would  buy  a  dukedom.  Come,  now,  have 
you  ever  seen  anything  to  equal  them  ? " 

"If  you  asked  me  that  question  with  a  scimitar 
at  my  throat,  after  the  Turkish  fashion,  or  even  your 
own  razor,"  said  the  young  Greek,  smiling  gaily,  and 
moving  on  towards  the  gates  of  the  Baptistery,  "I 
dare  say  you  might  get  a  confession  of  the  true  faith 
from  me.  But  with  my  throat  free  from  peril,  I  venture 
to  tell  you  that  your  buildings  smack  too  much  of 
Christian  barbarism  for  my  taste.  I  have  a  shuddering 
sense  of  what  there  is  inside  —  hideous  smoked  Ma- 
donnas; fleshless  saints  in  mosaic,  staring  down  idiotic 
astonishment  and  rebuke  from  the  apse;  skin-clad 
skeletons  hanging  on  crosses,  or  stuck  all  over  with 
arrows,  or  stretched  on  gridirons;  women  and  monks 
with  heads  aside  in  perpetual  lamentation.  I  have  seen 
enough  of  those  wr\--necked  favourites  of  heaven  at 
Constantinople.  But  what  is  this  bronze  door  rough 
with  imagery  ?  These  women's  figures  seem  moulded 
[   47   ] 


ROMOLA 

in  a  different  spirit  from  those  starved  and  staring  saints 
I  spoke  of:  these  heads  in  high  relief  speak  of  a  human 
mind  within  them,  instead  of  looking  like  an  index  to 
perpetual  spasms  and  colic." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Nello,  with  some  triumph.  "I  think 
we  shall  show  you  by  and  by  that  our  Florentine  art 
is  not  in  a  state  of  barbarism.  These  gates,  my  fine 
young  man,  were  moulded  half  a  century  ago,  by  our 
Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  when  he  counted  hardly  so  many 
years  as  you  do." 

"Ah,  I  remember,"  said  the  stranger,  turning  away, 
like  one  whose  appetite  for  contemplation  was  soon 
satisfied.  "I  have  heard  that  your  Tuscan  sculptors 
and  painters  have  been  studying  the  antique  a  little. 
But  with  monks  for  models,  and  the  legends  of  mad 
hermits  and  martyrs  for  subjects,  the  vision  of  OljTn- 
pus  itself  would  be  of  small  use  to  them." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Nello,  with  a  significant  shruor, 
as  they  walked  along.  "You  are  of  the  same  mind  as 
Michele  Marullo,  ay,  and  as  Angelo  Poliziano  himself, 
in  spite  of  his  canonicate,  when  he  relaxes  himself  a 
little  in  my  shop  after  his  lectures,  and  talks  of  the 
gods  awakening  from  their  long  sleep  and  making  the 
woods  and  streams  vital  once  more.  But  he  rails  against 
the  Roman  scholars  who  want  to  make  us  all  talk  Latin 
again:  'My  ears,'  he  says,  'are  sufficiently  flayed  by  the 
barbarisms  of  the  learned,  and  if  the  vulgar  are  to  talk 
Latin  I  would  as  soon  have  been  in  Florence  the  day 
they  took  to  beating  all  the  kettles  in  the  city  because 
the  bells  were  not  enough  to  stay  the  wrath  of  the  saints.* 
Ah,  Messer  Greco,  if  you  want  to  know  the  flavour  of 
[   48   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

our  scholarship,  you  must  frequent  my  shop:  it  is  the 
focus  of  Florentine  intellect,  and  in  that  sense  the  navel 
of  the  earth  —  as  my  great  predecessor,  Burchiello, 
said  of  his  shop,  on  the  more  frivolous  pretension  that 
his  street  of  the  Calimara  was  the  centre  of  our  city. 
And  here  we  are  at  the  sign  of  the  *  Apollo  and  the  Razor.* 
Apollo,  you  see,  is  bestowing  the  razor  on  the  Tripto- 
lemus  of  our  craft,  the  first  reaper  of  beards,  the  sub- 
lime Anonimo,  whose  mysterious  identity  is  indicated 
by  a  shadowy  hand." 

"I  see  thou  hast  had  custom  already,  Sandro,"  con- 
tinued Nello,  addressing  a  solemn-looking  dark-eyed 
youth,  who  made  way  for  them  on  the  threshold.  "  And 
now  make  all  clear  for  this  signor  to  sit  down.  And 
prepare  the  finest-scented  lather,  for  he  has  a  learned 
and  a  handsome  chin." 

"You  have  a  pleasant  little  adytum  there,  I  see," 
said  the  stranger,  looking  through  a  latticed  screen 
which  divided  the  shop  from  a  room  of  about  equal 
size,  opening  into  a  still  smaller  walled  enclosure, 
where  a  few  bays  and  laurels  surrounded  a  stone  Hermes. 
"  I  suppose  your  conclave  of  erudite  meets  there  ?  " 

"There,  and  not  less  in  my  shop,"  said  Nello,  lead- 
ing the  way  into  the  inner  room,  in  which  were  some 
benches,  a  table,  with  one  book  in  manuscript  and  one 
j)rint('d  in  capitals  lying  open  uj)on  it,  a  lute,  a  few  oil- 
sketches,  and  a  model  or  two  of  hands  and  ancient 
masks.  "  For  my  shop  is  a  no  less  fitting  haunt  of  the 
Muses,  as  you  will  acknowledge  when  you  feel  the 
sudden  illumination  of  understanding  and  the  serene 
vigour  of  inspiration  that  will  come  to  you  with  a  clear 
[   49   ] 


ROMOLA 

chin.  Ah !  you  can  make  that  lute  discourse,  I  perceive. 
I,  too,  have  some  skill  that  way,  though  the  serenata 
is  useless,  when  daylight  discloses  a  visage  like  mine, 
looking  no  fresher  than  an  apple  that  has  stood  the 
winter.  But  look  at  that  sketch:  it  is  a  fancy  of  Piero 
di  Cosimo's,  a  strange  freakish  painter,  who  says  he 
saw  it  by  long  looking  at  a  mouldy  wall." 

The  sketch  Nello  pointed  to  represented  three  masks 
—  one  a  drunken,  laughing  SatjT,  another  a  sorrowing 
Magdalen,  and  the  third,  which  lay  between  them, 
the  rigid,  cold  face  of  a  Stoic:  the  masks  rested  obliquely 
on  the  lap  of  a  little  child,  whose  cherub  features  rose 
above  them  with  something  of  the  supernal  promise  in 
the  gaze  which  painters  had  by  that  time  learned  to 
give  to  the  Divine  Infant. 

"A  symbolical  picture,  I  see,"  said  the  young  Greek, 
touching  the  lute  while  he  spoke,  so  as  to  bring  out 
a  slight  musical  murmur.  "The  child,  perhaps,  is  the 
Golden  Age,  wanting  neither  worship  nor  philosophy. 
And  the  Golden  Age  can  always  come  back  as  long  as 
men  are  born  in  the  form  of  babies,  and  don't  come 
into  the  world  in  the  cassock  or  furred  mantle.  Or,  the 
child  may  mean  the  wise  philosophy  of  Epicurus,  re- 
moved alike  from  the  gross,  the  sad,  and  the  severe." 

"Ah!  everybody  has  his  own  interpretation  for  that 
picture,"  said  Nello;  "and  if  you  ask  Piero  himself 
what  he  meant  by  it,  lie  says  his  pictures  are  an  ap- 
pendix which  Messer  Domeneddio  has  been  pleased  to 
make  to  the  universe,  and  if  any  man  is  in  doubt  what 
they  mean,  he  had  better  inquire  of  Holy  Church.  He 
has  been  asked  to  paint  a  picture  after  the  sketch,  but 
[    50    ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

he  puts  his  fingers  to  his  ears  and  shakes  his  head  at 
that;  the  fancy  is  past,  he  says  —  a  strange  animal,  our 
Piero.  But  now  all  is  ready  for  your  initiation  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  razor." 

"  Mysteries  they  may  well  be  called,"  continued  the 
barber,  with  rising  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  a  long 
monologue,  as  he  imprisoned  the  young  Greek  in  the 
shroud-like  shaving-cloth;  "mysteries  of  Minerva  and 
the  Graces.  I  get  the  flower  of  men's  thoughts,  because 
I  seize  them  in  the  first  moment  after  shaving.  (Ah! 
you  wince  a  little  at  the  lather :  it  tickles  the  out- 
lying limits  of  the  nose,  I  admit.)  And  that  is  what 
makes  the  peculiar  fitness  of  a  barber's  shop  to  be- 
come a  resort  of  wit  and  learning.  For,  look  now  at 
a  druggist's  shop:  there  is  a  dull  conclave  at  the  sign 
of  '  The  Moor,'  that  pretends  to  rival  mine ;  but  what 
sort  of  inspiration,  I  beseech  you,  can  be  got  from  the 
scent  of  nauseous  vegetable  decoctions  ?  —  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  fact  that  you  no  sooner  pass  the  threshold 
than  you  see  a  doctor  of  physic,  like  a  gigantic  spider 
disguised  in  fur  and  scarlet,  waiting  for  his  prey;  or 
even  see  him  blocking  up  the  doorway  seated  on  a  bony 
hack,  inspecting  saliva.  (Your  chin  a  little  elevated,  if 
it  please  you ;  contemplate  that  angel  who  is  blowing 
the  trumpet  at  you  from  the  ceiling.  I  had  it  painted 
expressly  for  the  regulation  of  ray  clients'  chins.)  Be- 
sides, your  druggist,  who  herborizes  and  decocts,  is 
a  man  of  prejudices:  he  has  poisoned  people  according 
to  a  system,  and  is  obliged  to  stand  u{)  for  his  system  to 
justify  the  consequences.  Now  a  barber  can  be  dis- 
passionate; the  only  thing  he  necessarily  stands  by  is 
[    51    ] 


ROMOLA 

the  razor,  always  providing  he  is  not  an  author.  That 
was  the  flaw  in  my  great  predecessor  Burchiello:  he 
was  a  poet,  and  had  consequently  a  prejudice  about  his 
own  poetry.  I  have  escaped  that;  I  saw  very  early  that 
authorship  is  a  narrowing  business,  in  conflict  with  the 
liberal  art  of  the  razor,  which  demands  an  impartial 
affection  for  all  men's  chins.  Ecco,  Messer!  the  out- 
line of  your  chin  and  lip  is  as  clear  as  a  maiden's;  and 
now  fix  your  mind  on  a  knotty  question  —  ask  your- 
self whether  you  are  bound  to  spell  Virgil  with  an  i  or 
an  e,  and  say  if  you  do  not  feel  an  unwonted  clearness 
on  the  point.  Only,  if  you  decide  for  the  i,  keep  it 
to  yourself  till  your  fortune  is  made,  for  the  e  hath 
the  stronger  following  in  Florence.  Ah !  I  think  I  see 
a  gleam  of  still  quicker  wit  in  your  eye.  I  have  it  on 
the  authority  of  our  young  Niccolo  Macchiavelli,  himself 
keen  enough  to  discern  il  pelo  nelV  novo,  as  we  say, 
and  a  great  lover  of  delicate  shaving,  though  his  beard 
is  hardly  of  two  years'  date,  that  no  sooner  do  the  hairs 
begin  to  push  themselves  than  he  perceives  a  certain 
grossness  of  apprehension  creeping  over  him." 

"Suppose  you  let  me  look  at  myself,"  said  the 
stranger,  laughing.  "  The  happy  effect  on  my  intellect 
is  perhaps  obstructed  by  a  little  doubt  as  to  the  effect 
on  my  appearance." 

"Behold  yourself  in  this  mirror,  then;  it  is  a  Vene- 
tian mirror  from  Murano,  the  true  nosce  tclpsum,  as 
I  have  named  it,  compared  with  which  the  finest  mirror 
of  steel  or  silver  is  mere  darkness.  See  now,  how  by 
diligent  shaving,  the  nether  region  of  your  face  may 
preserve  its  human  outline,  instead  of  presenting  no 
[   52   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

distinction  from  the  physiogonomy  of  a  bearded  owl 
or  a  Barbary  ape.  I  have  seen  men  whose  beards  have 
so  invaded  their  cheeks  that  one  might  have  pitied 
them  as  the  victims  of  a  sad,  brutahzing  chastisement 
befitting  our  Dante's  Inferno,  if  they  had  not  seemed 
to  strut  with  a  strange  triumph  in  their  extravagant 
hairiness." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  Greek,  still  looking  into 
the  mirror,  "that  you  have  taken  away  some  of  my 
capital  with  your  razor  —  I  mean  a  year  or  two  of  age, 
which  might  have  won  me  more  ready  credit  for  my 
learning.  Under  the  inspection  of  a  patron  whose  vision 
had  grown  somewhat  dim,  I  shall  have  a  perilous  re- 
semblance to  a  maiden  of  eighteen  in  the  disguise  of 
hose  and  jerkin." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Nello,  proceeding  to  clip  the  too 
extravagant  curls;  "your  proportions  are  not  those  of 
a  maiden.  And  for  your  age,  I  myself  remember  see- 
ing Angelo  Poliziano  begin  his  lectures  on  the  Latin 
language  when  he  had  a  younger  beard  than  yours;  and 
between  ourselves,  his  juvenile  ugliness  was  not  less 
signal  than  his  precocious  scholarship.  Whereas  you 
—  no,  no,  your  age  is  not  against  you ;  but  between 
ourselves,  let  me  hint  to  you  that  your  being  a  Greek, 
though  it  be  only  an  Apulian  Greek,  is  not  in  your  favour. 
Certain  of  our  scholars  hold  that  your  Greek  learning 
is  but  a  wayside  degenerate  plant  until  it  has  been  trans- 
planted into  Italian  brains,  and  that  now  there  is  such 
a  plentiful  crop  of  the  superior  quality,  your  native 
teachers  are  mere  propagators  of  degeneracy.  Ecco! 
your  curls  are  now  of  the  right  proportion  to  neck  and 
[   53   ] 


ROMOLA 

shoulders;  rise,  Messer,  and  I  will  free  you  from  the 
encumbrance  of  this  cloth.  Gnajfe/  I  almost  advise 
you  to  retain  the  faded  jerkin  and  hose  a  little  longer; 
they  give  you  the  air  of  a  fallen  prince." 

"But  the  question  is,"  said  the  young  Greek,  lean- 
ing against  the  high  back  of  a  chair,  and  returning  Nello's 
contemplative  admiration  with  a  look  of  inquiring 
anxiety ;  "  the  question  is,  in  what  quarter  I  am  to  carry 
my  princely  air,  so  as  to  rise  from  the  said  fallen  con- 
dition. If  your  Florentine  patrons  of  learning  share 
this  scholarly  hostility  to  the  Greeks,  I  see  not  how 
your  city  can  be  a  hospitable  refuge  for  me,  as  you 
seemed  to  say  just  now." 

"Plan  piano  —  not  so  fast,"  said  Nello,  sticking 
his  tlmmbs  into  his  belt  and  nodding  to  Sandro  to 
restore  order.  "I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  there 
is  a  prejudice  against  Greeks  among  us;  and  though, 
as  a  barber  unsnared  by  authorship,  I  share  no  pre- 
judices, I  must  admit  that  the  Greeks  are  not  always 
such  pretty  youngsters  as  yourself:  their  erudition  is 
often  of  an  uncombed,  unmannerly  aspect,  and  en- 
crusted with  a  barbarous  utterance  of  Italian,  that 
makes  their  converse  hardly  more  euphonious  than 
that  of  a  Tedesco  in  a  state  of  vinous  loquacity.  And 
then,  again,  excuse  me  —  we  Florentines  have  liberal 
ideas  about  speech,  and  consider  that  an  instrument 
which  can  flatter  and  promise  so  cleverly  as  the  tongue 
must  have  been  partly  made  for  those  purposes;  and 
that  truth  is  a  riddle  for  eyes  and  wit  to  discover,  which 
it  were  a  mere  spoiling  of  sport  for  the  tongue  to  betray. 
Still  we  have  our  limits  beyond  which  we  call  dissimu- 
[   54   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

lation  treachery.  But  it  is  said  of  the  Greeks  that  tlieir 
honesty  begins  at  what  is  the  hanging-point  with  us, 
and  that  since  the  old  Furies  went  to  sleep,  your  Christian 
Greek  is  of  so  easy  a  conscience  that  he  would  make 
a  stepping-stone  of  his  father's  corpse." 

The  flush  on  the  stranger's  face  indicated  what 
seemed  so  natural  a  movement  of  resentment,  that 
the  good-natured  Nello  hastened  to  atone  for  his  want 
of  reticence. 

"Be  not  offended,  bel  giovane;  I  am  but  repeating 
what  I  hear  in  my  shop;  as  you  may  perceive,  my  elo- 
quence is  simply  the  cream  which  I  skim  off  my  clients' 
talk.  Heaven  forbid  I  should  fetter  my  impartiality  by 
entertaining  an  opinion.  And  for  that  same  scholarly 
objection  to  the  Greeks,"  added  Nello,  in  a  more  mock- 
ing tone,  and  with  a  significant  grimace,  "the  fact  is, 
you  are  heretics,  Messer;  jealousy  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it:  if  you  would  just  change  your  opinion  about  leaven, 
and  alter  your  Doxology  a  little,  our  Italian  scholars 
would  think  it  a  thousand  years  till  they  could  give  up 
their  chairs  to  you.  Yes,  yes;  it  is  chiefly  religious 
scruple,  and  partly  also  the  authority  of  a  great  classic 
—  Juvenal,  is  it  not  ?  He,  I  gather,  had  his  bile  as 
much  stirred  by  the  swarm  of  Greeks  as  our  Messer 
Angelo,  who  is  fond  of  quoting  some  passage  about  their 
incorrigible  impudence  —  audacia  perdita." 

"Pooh!  the  passage  is  a  compliment,"  said  the 
Greek,  who  had  recovered  himself,  and  seemed  wise 
enough  to  take  the  matter  gaily  — 

'Inpcnium  velox,  audacia  perdita,  senno 
Promptus,  et  Isaco  torrentior.' 

[   55   ] 


ROMOLA 

A  rapid  intellect  and  ready  eloquence  may  carry  off 
a  little  impudence." 

"Assuredly,"  said  Nello.  "And  since,  as  I  see, 
you  know  Latin  literature  as  well  as  Greek,  you  will 
not  fall  into  the  mistake  of  Giovanni  Argiropulo, 
who  ran  full  tilt  against  Cicero,  and  pronounced  him 
all  but  a  pumpkin-head.  For,  let  me  give  you  one 
bit  of  advice,  young  man,  —  trust  a  barber  who  has 
shaved  the  best  chins,  and  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  open 
for  twenty  years,  —  oil  your  tongue  well  when  you  talk 
of  the  ancient  Latin  writers,  and  give  it  an  extra  dip 
when  you  talk  of  the  modern.  A  wise  Greek  may  win 
favour  among  us;  witness  our  excellent  Demetrio,  who 
is  loved  by  many,  and  not  hated  immoderately  even 
by  the  most  renowned  scholars." 

"I  discern  the  wisdom  of  your  advice  so  clearly,** 
said  the  Greek,  with  the  bright  smile  which  was  con- 
tinually lighting  up  the  fine  form  and  colour  of  his 
young  face,  "  that  I  will  ask  you  for  a  little  more.  \\Tio 
now,  for  example,  would  be  the  most  likely  patron 
for  me?  Is  there  a  son  of  Lorenzo  who  inherits  his 
tastes?  Or  is  there  any  other  wealthy  Florentine 
specially  addicted  to  purchasing  antique  gems  ?  I  have 
a  fine  Cleopatra  cut  in  sardonyx,  and  one  or  two 
other  intaglios  and  cameos,  both  curious  and  beauti- 
ful, worthy  of  being  added  to  the  cabinet  of  a  prince. 
Happily,  I  had  taken  the  precaution  of  fastening 
them  within  the  lining  of  my  doublet  before  I  set 
out  on  my  voyage.  Moreover,  I  should  like  to  raise 
a  small  sum  for  my  present  need  on  tliis  ring  of  mine " 
[here  he  took  out  the  ring  and  replaced  it  on  his 
[   56   ] 


THE  BARBER'S  SHOP 

finger),  **if  you  could  recommend  me  to  any  honest 

traflBcker." 

"Let  us  see,  let  us  see,"  said  Nello,  perusing  the 
floor,  and  walking  up  and  down  the  length  of  his  shop. 
"This  is  no  time  to  apply  to  Piero  de'  Medici,  though 
he  has  the  will  to  make  such  purchases  if  he  could 
always  spare  the  money;  but  I  think  it  is  another  sort 
of  Cleopatra  that  he  covets  most.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  have 
it.  What  you  want  is  a  man  of  wealth,  and  influence, 
and  scholarly  tastes  —  not  one  of  your  learned  porcu- 
pines, bristling  all  over  with  critical  tests,  but  one 
whose  Greek  and  Latin  are  of  a  comfortable  laxity. 
And  that  man  is  Bartolommeo  Scala,  the  Secretary  of 
our  Republic.  He  came  to  Florence  as  a  poor  adventurer 
himself  —  a  miller's  son  —  a  '  branny  monster,'  as  he 
has  been  nicknamed  by  our  honey-lipped  Poliziano, 
who  agrees  with  him  as  well  as  my  teeth  agree  with 
lemon-juice.  And,  by  the  by,  that  may  be  a  reason  why 
the  Secretary  may  be  the  more  ready  to  do  a  good  turn 
to  a  strange  scholar.  For,  between  you  and  me,  bel 
giovan£y  —  trust  a  barber  who  has  shaved  the  best 
scholars,  —  friendliness  is  much  such  a  steed  as  Ser 
Benghi's:  it  will  hardly  show  much  alacrity  unless  it 
has  got  the  thistle  of  hatred  under  its  tail.  However, 
the  secretary  is  a  man  who'll  keep  his  word  to  you,  even 
to  the  halving  of  a  fennel-seed;  and  he  is  not  unlikely 
to  buy  some  of  your  gems." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  get  at  this  great  man  ? "  said  the 
Greek,  rather  impatiently. 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  said  Nello.  "Just  now 
everybody  of  any  public  importance  will  be  full  of 
[   57   ] 


ROMOLA 

TdaWKBO*s  death,  and  a  stranger  may  find  it  diflkoil 
to  get  anr  notice.  But  in  the  laean  time,  I  ooiild  take 
you  to  a  man  who.  if  he  ha?  a  mind,  can  hc^  yoa  to 
a  chance  cf  a  favourable  interriew  with  Scala  sooner 
than  anybody  eke  in  Florence  —  •worth  seeing  for  his 
0"vm  sake.  too.  to  say  nothing  of  his  collections,  or  of 
his  daughter  Romola.  who  is  as  fair  as  the  Roreaitine 
IDy  beiore  it  got  quarrelsome  aod  turned  red." 

**But  if  this  father  of  the  beautiful  Romola  makes 
collections,  why  should  he  not  like  to  buy  some  of  mv 
gems  himself  ?  " 

NeBo  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "For  two  good  rea- 
sons —  want  of  sight  to  look  at  the  gems,  and  want  of 
money  to  pay  for  them.  Our  old  Bardo  de'  Bardi  is 
so  blind  that  he  can  see  no  more  of  his  daughter  ihaa, 
as  he  says,  a  gfanmering  of  scMD^hing  bi^it  when  Ae 
comes  voy  near  him :  doubtles  her  golden  hair,  wfaicfa, 
as  Messer  Luigi  Puld  says  of  his  Menfiaiia's,  *  raygia 
come  gfeUa  per  sereno.*  Ah  I  here  come  some  clients  of 
mine,  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  one  of  them  cooW 
jour  turn  about  that  ring." 


CHAPTER   IV 
FIRST  BIPRESSIOXS 

GOOD-DAT,  Messer  Domenico,"  said  Xello  to  the 
foremost  of  the  two  visitors  who  entered  the  shop, 
while  he  nodded  silently  to  the  other.  "You  come 
as  opportunely  as  cheese  on  macaroni.  Ah!  you  are 
in  haste  —  wish  to  be  shaved  without  delay  —  ecco ! 
And  this  is  a  morning  when  every  one  has  grave  matter 
on  his  mind.  Florence  orphaned  —  the  very  pivot  of 
Italy  snatched  away  —  heaven  itself  at  a  loss  what 
to  do  next.  Oime.'  Well,  well:  the  sun  is  nevertheless 
travelling  on  towards  dinner-time  again ;  and,  as  I  was 
saying,  you  come  like  cheese  ready  grated.  For  this 
young  stranger  was  wishing  for  an  honourable  trader 
who  would  advance  him  a  sum  on  a  certain  ring  <rf 
value,  and  if  I  had  counted  every  goldsmith  and  money- 
lender in  Florence  on  my  fingers,  I  could  n't  have  found 
a  better  name  than  Menico  Cennini.  Besides,  he  hath 
other  ware  in  which  you  deal  —  Greak  learning,  and 
young  eyes  —  a  double  implement  which  you  printers 
are  always  in  need  of." 

The  grave  elderly  man,  son  of  that  Bernardo  Cen- 
nini, who,  twenty  years  before,  having  heard  of  the 
new  process  of  printing  carried  on  by  Germans,  had 
cast  his  own  types  in  Florence,  remained  necessarily 
in  lathered  silence  and  passi\nty  while  Xello  show- 
ered this  talk  in  his  ears,  but  turned  a  slow  sideway 
gaze  on  the  stranger. 

[   59   ] 


ROMOLA 

"  This  fine  young  man  has  unlimited  Greek,  Latin,  or 
Italian  at  your  service,"  continued  Nello,  fond  of  inter- 
preting by  very  ample  paraphrase.  "He  is  as  great  a 
wonder  of  juvenile  learning  as  Francesco  Filelfo  or  our 
own  incomparable  Poliziano.  A  second  Guarino,  too, 
for  he  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  shipwTecked,  and 
has  doubtless  lost  a  store  of  precious  manuscripts  that 
might  have  contributed  some  correctness  even  to  your 
correct  editions,  Domenico.  Fortunately,  he  has  rescued 
a  few  gems  of  rare  value.  His  name  is  —  you  said  your 
name,  Messer,  was  —  ? " 

"Tito  Melema,"  said  the  stranger,  slipping  the  ring 
from  his  finger,  and  presenting  it  to  Cennini,  whom 
Nello,  not  less  rapid  with  his  razor  than  with  his  tongue, 
had  now  released  from  the  shaving-cloth. 

Meanwhile  the  man  who  had  entered  the  shop  in  com- 
pany with  the  goldsmith  —  a  tall  figure,  about  fifty, 
with  a  short  trimmed  beard,  wearing  an  old  felt  hat  and 
a  threadbare  mantle  —  had  kept  his  eye  fijced  on  the 
Greek,  and  now  said  abruptly,  — 

"Young  man,  I  am  painting  a  picture  of  Sinon  de- 
ceiving old  Priam,  and  I  should  be  glad  of  your  face  for 
my  Sinon,  if  you  'd  give  me  a  sitting." 

Tito  Melema  started  and  looked  round  with  a  pale 
astonishment  in  his  face  as  if  at  a  sudden  accusation; 
but  Nello  left  him  no  time  to  feel  at  a  loss  for  an  answer: 
"  Piero,"  said  the  barber,  "  thou  art  the  most  extraordi- 
nary compound  of  humours  and  fancies  ever  packed  into 
a  human  skin.  What  trick  wilt  thou  play  with  the  fine 
visage  of  this  young  scholar  to  make  it  suit  thy  traitor  ? 
Ask  him  rather  to  turn  his  eyes  upward,  and  thou  mayst 
[   60   ] 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

make  a  Saint  Sebastian  of  him  that  will  draw  troops  of 
devout  women;  or,  if  thou  art  in  a  classical  vein,  put 
myrtle  about  his  curls  and  make  him  a  young  Bacchus, 
or  say  rather  a  Phoebus  Apollo,  for  his  face  is  as  warm 
and  bright  as  a  summer  morning;  it  made  me  his  friend 
in  the  space  of  a  'credo.' " 

"Ay,  Nello,"  said  the  painter,  speaking  with  abrupt 
pauses ;  "  and  if  thy  tongue  can  leave  off  its  everlasting 
chirping  long  enough  for  thy  understanding  to  consider 
the  matter,  thou  mayst  see  that  thou  hast  just  shown 
the  reason  why  the  face  of  Messere  will  suit  my  traitor. 
A  perfect  traitor  should  have  a  face  which  vice  can  write 
no  marks  on  —  lips  that  will  lie  with  a  dimpled  smile  — - 
eyes  of  such  agate-like  brightness  and  depth  that  no  in- 
famy can  dull  them  —  cheeks  that  will  rise  from  a  mur- 
der and  not  look  haggard.  I  say  not  this  young  man  is  a 
traitor :  I  mean,  he  has  a  face  that  would  make  him  the 
more  perfect  traitor  if  he  had  the  heart  of  one,  which  is 
saying  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  he  has  a  beautiful 
face,  informed  with  rich  young  blood,  that  will  be  nour- 
ished enough  by  food,  and  keep  its  colour  without  much 
help  of  virtue.  He  may  have  the  heart  of  a  hero  along 
with  it;  I  aver  nothing  to  the  contrary.  Ask  Domenico 
there  if  the  lapidaries  can  always  tell  a  gem  by  the  sight 
alone.  And  now  I  'm  going  to  put  the  tow  in  my  ears, 
for  thy  chatter  and  the  bells  together  are  more  than 
I  can  endure:  so  say  no  more  to  me,  but  trim  my 
beard." 

With  these  last  words  Piero  (called  "di  Cosimo," 
from  his  master,  Cosimo  Rosselli)  drew  out  two  bits  of 
tow,  stuffed  them  in  his  ears,  and  placed  himself  in  the 
[   61    ] 


ROMOLA 

chair  before  Nello,  who  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  cast  a  grimacing  look  of  intelligence  at  the 
Greek,  as  much  as  to  say,  "A  whimsical  fellow, 
you  perceive!  Everybody  holds  his  speeches  as  mere 
jokes." 

Tito,  who  had  stood  transfixed,  with  his  long  dark  eyes 
resting  on  the  unknown  man  who  had  addressed  him  so 
equivocally,  seemed  recalled  to  his  self-command  by 
Piero's  change  of  position,  and  apparently  satisfied  with 
his  explanation,  was  again  giving  his  attention  to  Cen- 
nini,  who  presently  said,  — 

"This  is  a  curious  and  valuable  ring,  young  man. 
This  intaglio  of  the  fish  with  the  crested  serpent  above 
it,  in  the  black  stratum  of  the  on}^^,  or  rather  nicolo,  is 
well  shown  by  the  surrounding  blue  of  the  upper  stra- 
tum. The  ring  has,  doubtless,  a  history  ?  "  added  Cen- 
nini,  looking  up  keenly  at  the  young  stranger. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Tito,  meeting  the  scrutiny  very 
frankly,  "The  ring  was  found  in  Sicily,  and  I  have 
understood  from  those  who  busy  themselves  M^th  gems 
and  sigils,  that  both  the  stone  and  intaglio  are  of  vir- 
tue to  make  the  wearer  fortunate,  especially  at  sea,  and 
also  to  restore  to  him  whatever  he  may  have  lost.  But," 
he  continued,  smiling, "  though  I  have  worn  it  constantly 
since  I  quitted  Greece,  it  has  not  made  me  altogether 
fortunate  at  sea,  you  perceive,  unless  I  am  to  count  es- 
cape from  drowning  as  a  sufficient  proof  of  its  virtue. 
It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  my  lost  chests  will  come 
to  light;  but  to  lose  no  chance  of  such  a  result,  Messer, 
I  will  pray  you  only  to  hold  the  ring  for  a  short  space  as 
pledge  for  a  small  sum  far  beneath  its  value,  and  I  will 
[   62   ] 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

redeem  it  as  soon  as  I  can  dispose  of  certain  other 
gems  which  are  secured  within  my  doublet,  or  indeed 
as  soon  as  I  can  earn  something  by  any  scholarly 
employment,  if  I  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  with 
such." 

"That  may  be  seen,  young  man,  if  you  will  come 
with  me,"  said  Cennini.  "  My  brother  Pietro,  who  is  a 
better  judge  of  scholarship  than  I,  will  perhaps  be  able 
to  supply  you  with  a  task  that  may  test  your  capabil- 
ities. Meanwhile,  take  back  your  ring  until  I  can  hand 
you  the  necessary  florins,  and,  if  it  please  you,  come 
along  with  me." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Nello,  "go  with  Messer  Domenico, 
you  cannot  go  in  better  company ;  he  was  born  under  the 
constellation  that  gives  a  man  skill,  riches,  and  integrity, 
whatever  that  constellation  may  be,  which  is  of  the  less 
consequence  because  babies  can't  choose  their  own  horo- 
scopes, and,  indeed,  if  they  could,  there  might  be  an  in- 
convenient rush  of  babies  at  particular  epochs.  Besides, 
our  Phoenix,  the  incomparable  Pico,  has  shown  that 
your  horoscopes  are  all  a  nonsensical  dream  —  which 
is  the  less  troublesome  opinion.  Addiol  bel  giovane/ 
don't  forget  to  come  back  to  me." 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  Tito,  beckoning  a  farewell, 
as  he  turned  round  his  bright  face  at  the  door.  "  You 
are  to  do  me  a  great  service :  —  that  is  the  most  positive 
security  for  your  seeing  me  again." 

"  Say  what  thou  wilt,  Piero,"  said  Nello,  as  the  young 

stranger  disappeared,  "I  shall  never  look  at  such  an 

outside  as  that  without  taking  it  as  a  sign  of  a  loveable 

nature.   Why,  thou  wilt  say  next  that  Lionardo,  whom 

[   63   ] 


ROMOLA 

thou  art  always  raving  about,  ought  to  have  made  his 
Judas  as  beautiful  as  Saint  John!  But  thou  art  as 
deaf  as  the  top  of  Mount  Morello  with  that  accursed 
tow  in  thy  ears.  Well,  well :  I  '11  get  a  little  more  of  this 
young  man's  history  from  him  before  I  take  him  to 
Bardo  Bardi." 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 

THE  Via  de'  Bardi,  a  street  noted  in  the  history  of 
Florence,  lies  in  Oltrarno,  or  that  portion  of  the 
city  which  clothes  the  southern  bank  of  the  river.  It 
extends  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio  to  the  Piazza  de'  Mozzi 
at  the  head  of  the  Ponte  alle  Grazie;  its  right-hand  line 
of  houses  and  walls  being  backed  by  the  rather  steep 
ascent  which  in  the  fifteenth  century  was  known  as  the 
hill  of  Bogoli,  the  famous  stone-quarry  whence  the  city 
got  its  pavement  —  of  dangerously  unstable  consistence 
when  penetrated  by  rains;  its  left-hand  buildings  flank- 
ing the  river  and  making  on  their  northern  side  a  length 
of  quaint,  irregularly-pierced  fa9ade,  of  which  the  waters 
give  a  softened  loving  reflection  as  the  sun  begins  to 
decline  towards  the  western  heights.  But  quaint  as 
these  buildings  are,  some  of  them  seem  to  the  historical 
memory  a  too  modern  substitute  for  the  famous  houses 
of  the  Bardi  family,  destroyed  by  popular  rage  in  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

They  were  a  proud  and  energetic  stock,  these  Bardi; 
conspicuous  among  those  who  clutched  the  sword  in 
the  earliest  world-famous  quarrels  of  Florentines  with 
Florentines,  when  the  narrow  streets  were  darkened 
with  the  high  towers  of  the  nobles,  and  when  the  old 
tutelar  god  Mars,  as  he  saw  the  gutters  reddened  with 
neighbours'  blood,  might  well  have  smiled  at  the  cen- 
[   65    ] 


ROMOLA 

turies  of  lip-service  paid  to  his  rival,  the  Baptist.  But 
the  Bardi  hands  were  of  the  sort  that  not  only  clutch  the 
sword-hilt  with  vigour,  but  love  the  more  delicate  pleas- 
ure of  fingering  minted  metal:  they  were  matched,  too, 
with  true  Florentine  eyes,  capable  of  discerning  that 
power  was  to  be  won  by  other  means  than  by  rending 
and  riving,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century 
we  find  them  risen  from  their  original  condition  of  po- 
polani  to  be  possessors,  by  purchase,  of  lands  and 
strongholds,  and  the  feudal  dignity  of  Counts  of  Vernio, 
disturbing  to  the  jealousy  of  their  republican  fellow 
citizens.  These  lordly  purchases  are  explained  by  our 
seeing  the  Bardi  disastrously  signalized  only  a  few  years 
later  as  standing  in  the  very  front  of  European  com- 
merce —  the  Christian  Rothschilds  of  that  time  —  un^' 
dertaking  to  furnish  specie  for  the  wars  of  our  Edward 
the  Third,  and  having  revenues  "  in  kind  "  made  over 
to  them;  especially  in  wool,  most  precious  of  freights 
for  Florentine  galleys.  Their  august  debtor  left  them 
with  an  august  deficit,  and  alarmed  Sicilian  creditors 
made  a  too  sudden  demand  for  the  payment  of  deposits, 
causing  a  ruinous  shock  to  the  credit  of  the  Bardi  and 
of  associated  houses,  which  was  felt  as  a  commercial 
calamity  along  all  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  But, 
like  more  modern  bankrupts,  they  did  not,  for  all  that, 
hide  their  heads  in  humiliation;  on  the  contrary,  they 
seemed  to  have  held  them  higher  than  ever,  and  to  have 
been  among  the  most  arrogant  of  those  grandees,  who 
under  certain  noteworthy  circumstances,  open  to  all  who 
will  read  the  honest  pages  of  Giovanni  Villani,  drew 
upon  themselves  the  exasperation  of  the  armed  people  in 
[   66   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

1343.  The  Bardi,  who  had  made  themselves  fast  in  their 
street  between  the  two  bridges,  kept  these  narrow  inlets, 
like  panthers  at  bay,  against  the  oncoming  gonfalons 
of  the  people,  and  were  only  made  to  give  way  by  an 
assault  from  the  hill  behind  them.  Their  houses  by  the 
river,  to  the  number  of  twenty-two  (palagi  e  case  grandi), 
were  sacked  and  burnt,  and  many  among  the  chief  of 
those  who  bore  the  Bardi  name  were  driven  from  the 
city.  But  an  old  Florentine  family  was  many-rooted, 
and  we  find  the  Bardi  maintaining  importance  and 
rising  again  and  again  to  the  surface  of  Florentine  af- 
fairs in  a  more  or  less  creditable  manner,  implying  an 
untold  family  history  that  would  have  included  even 
more  vicissitudes  and  contrasts  of  dignity  and  disgrace, 
of  wealth  and  poverty,  than  are  usually  seen  on  the 
background  of  wide  kinship.^  But  the  Bardi  never  re- 
sumed their  proprietorship  in  the  old  street  on  the  banks 
of  the  river,  which  in  1492  had  long  been  associated  with 
other  names  of  mark,  and  especially  with  the  Neri,  who 
possessed  a  considerable  range  of  houses  on  the  side 
towards  the  hill. 

In  one  of  these  Neri  houses  there  lived,  however, 
a  descendant  of  the  Bardi,  and  of  that  very  branch 

'  A  sign  that  such  contrasts  were  j)ecuUarly  frequent  in  Florence 
is  the  fact  that  Saint  Antoiiine,  Prior  of  San  Marco,  anil  afterwards 
archbishop,  in  the  first  half  of  this  fifteenth  century,  founded  the 
society  of  Buonuomini  di  San  Martino  (Gootl  Men  of  Saint  Martin) 
with  the  main  object  of  succouring  the  poveri  vergognosi  —  in  other 
words,  pauj^rs  of  good  family.  In  the  records  of  the  famous  Pan- 
ciaticlii  family  we  find  a  certain  (iirolamo  in  this  century  who  was 
reduced  to  such  a  state  of  [xjverty  that  he  was  obliged  to  seek  charity 
for  the  mere  means  of  sustaining  life,  though  other  members  of  his 
family  were  enormously  wealthy. 

[67   ] 


ROMOLA 

which  a  century  and  a  half  before  had  become  Counts 
of  Vemio:  a  descendant  who  had  inherited  the  old 
family  pride  and  energy,  the  old  love  of  pre-eminence, 
the  old  desire  to  leave  a  lasting  track  of  his  footsteps 
on  the  fast-whirling  earth.  But  the  family  passions 
lived  on  in  him  under  altered  conditions:  this  de- 
scendant of  the  Bardi  was  not  a  man  swift  in  street 
warfare,  or  one  who  loved  to  play  the  signor,  fortify- 
ing strongholds  and  asserting  the  right  to  hang  vas- 
sals, or  a  merchant  and  usurer  of  keen  daring,  who 
delighted  in  the  generalship  of  wide  commercial  schemes: 
he  was  a  man  with  deep-veined  hand  cramped  by 
much  copying  of  manuscripts,  who  ate  sparing  dinners, 
and  wore  threadbare  clothes,  at  first  from  choice  and 
at  last  from  necessity;  who  sat  among  his  books  and 
his  marble  fragments  of  the  past,  and  saw  them  only 
by  the  light  of  those  far-off  younger  days  which  still 
shone  in  his  memory:  he  was  a  moneyless,  blind  old 
scholar  —  the  Bardo  de'  Bardi  to  whom  Nello,  the 
barber,  had  promised  to  introduce  the  young  Greek, 
Tito  Melema. 

The  house  in  which  Bardo  lived  was  situated  on 
the  side  of  the  street  nearest  the  hill,  and  was  one  of 
those  large  sombre  masses  of  stone  building  pierced 
by  comparatively  small  windows,  and  surmounted  by 
what  may  be  called  a  roofed  terrace  or  loggia,  of  which 
there  are  many  examples  still  to  be  seen  in  the  vener- 
able city.  Grim  doors,  with  conspicuous  scrolled  hinges, 
having  high  up  on  each  side  of  them  a  small  window 
defended  by  iron  bars,  opened  on  a  groined  entrance- 
court,  empty  of  everything  but  a  massive  lamp-iron 
[   68   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

suspended  from  the  centre  of  the  groin.  A  smaller 
grim  door  on  the  left  hand  admitted  to  the  stone  stair- 
case, and  the  rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  These  last 
were  used  as  a  warehouse  by  the  proprietor;  so  was 
the  first  floor;  and  both  were  filled  with  precious  stores, 
destined  to  be  carried,  some  perhaps  to  the  banks  of 
the  Scheldt,  some  to  the  shores  of  Africa,  some  to  the 
isles  of  the  Egean,  or  to  the  banks  of  the  Euxine. 
Maso,  the  old  serving-man,  when  he  returned  from 
the  Mercato  with  the  stock  of  cheap  vegetables,  had 
to  take  his  slow  way  up  to  the  second  storey  before 
he  reached  the  door  of  his  master,  Bardo,  through 
which  we  are  about  to  enter  only  a  few  mornings 
after  Nello's  conversation  with  the  Greek. 

We  follow  Maso  across  the  antechamber  to  the 
door  on  the  left  hand,  through  which  we  pass  as  he 
opens  it.  He  merely  looks  in  and  nods,  while  a  clear 
young  voice  says,  "Ah,  you  are  come  back,  Maso.  It 
is  well.   We  have  wanted  nothing." 

The  voice  came  from  the  farther  end  of  a  long,  spa- 
cious room,  surrounded  with  shelves,  on  which  books 
and  antiquities  were  arranged  in  scrupulous  order. 
Here  and  there,  on  separate  stands  in  front  of  the 
shelves,  were  placed  a  beautiful  feminine  torso;  a 
headless  statue,  with  an  uplifted  muscular  arm  wield- 
ing a  bladeless  sword;  rounded,  dimpled,  infantine 
limbs  severed  from  the  trunk,  inviting  the  lips  to  kiss 
the  cold  marble;  some  well-preserved  Roman  busts; 
and  two  or  three  vases  from  Magna  Grccia.  A  large 
table  in  the  centre  was  covered  with  antique  bronze 
lamps  and  small  vessels  in  dark  pottery.  The  colour 
[   09   ] 


ROMOLA 

of  these  objects  was  chiefly  pale  or  sombre:  the  vellum 
bindings,  with  their  deep-ridged  backs,  gave  little  re- 
lief to  the  marble,  livid  with  long  burial;  the  once 
splendid  patch  of  carpet  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
had  long  been  worn  to  dimness;  the  dark  bronzes 
wanted  sunlight  upon  them  to  bring  out  their  tinge  of 
green,  and  the  sun  was  not  yet  high  enough  to  send 
gleams  of  brightness  through  the  narrow  windows  that 
looked  on  the  Via  de'  Bardi. 

The  only  spot  of  bright  colour  in  the  room  was  made 
by  the  hair  of  a  tall  maiden  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  who 
was  standing  before  a  carved  leggio,  or  reading-desk, 
such  as  is  often  seen  in  the  choirs  of  Italian  churches. 
The  hair  was  of  a  reddish  gold  colour,  enriched  by  an 
unbroken  small  ripple,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  sun- 
set clouds  on  grandest  autumnal  evenings.  It  was  con- 
fined by  a  black  fillet  above  her  small  ears,  from  which 
it  rippled  forward  again,  and  made  a  natural  veil  for 
her  neck  above  her  square-cut  gown  of  black  rascia, 
or  serge.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  a  large  volume  placed 
before  her:  one  long  white  hand  rested  on  the  reading- 
desk,  and  the  other  clasped  the  back  of  her  father's 
chair. 

The  blind  father  sat  with  head  uplifted  and  turned 
a  little  aside  towards  his  daughter,  as  if  he  were  look- 
ing at  her.  His  delicate  paleness,  set  off  by  the  black 
velvet  cap  which  surmounted  his  drooping  white  hair, 
made  all  the  more  perceptible  the  likeness  between  his 
aged  features  and  those  of  the  young  maiden,  whose 
cheeks  were  also  without  any  tinge  of  the  rose.  There 
was  the  same  refinement  of  brow  and  nostril  in  both, 
[    70   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

counterbalanced  by  a  full  though  firm  mouth  and 
powerful  chin,  which  gave  an  expression  of  proud  ten- 
acity and  latent  impetuousness :  an  expression  carried 
out  in  the  backward  poise  of  the  girl's  head,  and  the 
grand  line  of  her  neck  and  shoulders.  It  was  a  type 
of  face  of  which  one  could  not  venture  to  say  whether 
it  would  inspire  love  or  only  that  unwilling  admira- 
tion which  is  mixed  with  dread :  the  question  must  be 
decided  by  the  eyes,  which  often  seem  charged  with  ^ 
a  more  direct  message  from  the  soul.  But  the  eyes  of 
the  father  had  long  been  silent,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
daughter  were  bent  on  the  Latin  pages  of  Politian's 
"Miscellanea,"  from  which  she  was  reading  aloud  at 
the  eightieth  chapter,  to  the  following  effect :  — 

"There  was  a  certain  nymph  of  Thebes  named 
Chariclo,  especially  dear  to  Pallas;  and  this  nymph 
was  the  mother  of  Teiresias.  But  once  when  in  the 
heat  of  summer,  Pallas,  in  company  with  Chariclo, 
was  bathing  her  disrobed  limbs  in  the  Heliconian 
Hippocrene,  it  happened  that  Teiresias  coming  as  a 
hunter  to  quench  his  thirst  at  the  same  fountain,  in- 
advertently beheld  Minerva  unveiled,  and  immediately 
became  blind.  For  it  is  declared  in  the  Saturnian 
laws  that  he  who  beholds  the  gods  against  their  will 
shall  atone  for  it  by  a  heavy  penalty.  •  .  •  When 
Teiresias  had  fallen  into  this  calamity,  Pallas,  moved 
by  the  tears  of  Chariclo,  endowed  him  with  prophecy 
and  length  of  days,  and  even  caused  his  prudence  and 
wisdom  to  continue  after  he  had  entered  among  the 
shades,  so  that  an  oracle  spake  from  his  tomb:  and  she 
gave  him  a  staff,  wherewith,  as  by  a  guide,  he  might 
[   71    ] 


ROMOLA 

walk  without  stumbling.  .  .  .  And  hence,  Nonnus,  in 
the  fifth  book  of  the  '  Dionysiaca,'  introduces  Actaeon 
exclaiming  that  he  calls  Teiresias  happy,  since,  without 
dying,  and  with  the  loss  of  his  eyesight  merely,  he  had 
beheld  Minerva  unveiled,  and  thus,  though  blind,  could 
for  evermore  carry  her  image  in  his  soul." 

At  this  point  in  the  reading,  the  daughter's  hand 
slipped  from  the  back  of  the  chair  and  met  her  father's, 
which  he  had  that  moment  uplifted;  but  she  had  not 
looked  round,  and  was  going  on,  though  with  a  voice 
a  little  altered  by  some  suppressed  feeling,  to  read  the 
Greek  quotation  from  Nonnus,  when  the  old  man 
said,  — 

"Stay,  Romola;  read  me  my  own  copy  of  Nonnus. 
It  is  a  more  correct  copy  than  any  in  Poliziano's  hands, 
for  I  made  emendations  in  it  which  have  not  yet  been 
communicated  to  any  man.  I  finished  it  in  1477,  when 
my  sight  was  fast  failing  me." 

Romola  walked  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
with  the  queenly  step  which  was  the  simple  action  of 
her  tall,  finely-wrought  frame,  without  the  slightest 
conscious  adjustment  of  herself. 

"Is  it  in  the  right  place,  Romola?"  asked  Bardo, 
who  was  perpetually  seeking  the  assurance  that  the 
outward  fact  continued  to  correspond  with  the  image 
which  lived  to  the  minutest  detail  in  his  mind. 

"Yes,  father;  at  the  west  end  of  the  room,  on  the 
third  shelf  from  the  bottom,  behind  the  bust  of  Ha- 
drian, above  ApoUonius  Rhodius  and  Callimachus, 
and  below  Lucan  and  Silius  Italicus." 

As  Romola  said  this,  a  fine  ear  would  have  detected, 
[    72   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

in  her  clear  voice  and  distinct  utterance,  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  weariness  struggling  with  habitual  patience. 
But  as  she  approached  her  father  and  saw  his  arms 
stretched  out  a  little  with  nervous  excitement  to  seize 
the  volume,  her  hazel  eyes  filled  with  pity;  she  hastened 
to  lay  the  book  on  his  lap,  and  kneeled  down  by  him, 
looking  up  at  him  as  if  she  believed  that  the  love  in 
her  face  must  surely  make  its  way  through  the  dark 
obstruction  that  shut  out  everything  else.  At  that 
moment  the  doubtful  attractiveness  of  Romola's  face, 
in  which  pride  and  passion  seemed  to  be  quivering  in 
the  balance  with  native  refinement  and  intelligence,  was 
transfigured  to  the  most  loveable  womanliness  by  mingled 
pity  and  affection:  it  was  evident  that  the  deepest  fount 
of  feeling  within  her  had  not  yet  wrought  its  way  to  the 
less  changeful  features,  and  only  found  its  outlet  through 
her  eyes. 

But  the  father,  unconscious  of  that  soft  radiance, 
looked  flushed  and  agitated  as  his  hand  explored  the 
edges  and  back  of  the  large  book. 

"The  vellum  is  yellowed  in  these  thirteen  years, 
Romola." 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Romola,  gently;  "but  your 
letters  at  the  back  are  dark  and  plain  still  —  fine 
Roman  letters;  and  the  Greek  character,"  she  con- 
tinued, laying  the  book  open  on  her  father's  knee, 
"is  more  beautiful  than  that  of  any  of  your  bought 
manuscripts." 

"Assuredly,  child,"  said  Bardo,  passing  his  finger 
across  the  page,  as  if  he  hoped  to  discriminate  line 
and  margin.  "What  hired  amanuensis  can  be  equal 
[   73   ] 


ROMOLA 

to  the  scribe  who  loves  the  words  that  grow  under 
his  hand,  and  to  whom  an  error  or  indistinctness  in 
the  text  is  more  painful  than  a  sudden  darkness  or 
obstacle  across  his  path?  And  even  these  mechan- 
ical printers  who  threaten  to  make  learning  a  base 
and  vulgar  thing  —  even  they  must  depend  on  the 
manuscript  over  which  we  scholars  have  bent  with 
that  insight  into  the  poet's  meaning  which  is  closely 
akin  to  the  mens  divinior  of  the  poet  himself;  unless 
they  would  flood  the  world  with  grammatical  falsities 
and  inexplicable  anomalies  that  would  turn  the  very 
fountain  of  Parnassus  into  a  deluge  of  poisonous  mud. 
But  find  the  passage  in  the  fifth  book,  to  which  Poliziano 
refers  —  I  know  it  very  well." 

Seating  herself  on  a  low  stool,  close  to  her  father's 
knee,  Romola  took  the  book  on  her  lap  and  read  the 
four  verses  containing  the  exclamation  of  Actaeon, 

"It  is  true,  Romola,"  said  Bardo,  when  she  had 
finished;  "it  is  a  true  conception  of  the  poet;  for  what 
is  that  grosser,  narrower  light  by  which  men  behold 
merely  the  petty  scene  around  them,  compared  with 
that  far-stretching,  lasting  light  which  spreads  over 
centuries  of  thought,  and  over  the  life  of  nations,  and 
makes  clear  to  us  the  minds  of  the  immortals  who  haye 
reaped  the  great  harvest  and  left  us  to  glean  in  their 
furrows?  For  me,  Romola,  even  when  I  could  see,  it 
was  with  the  great  dead  that  I  lived;  while  the  living 
often  seemed  to  me  mere  spectres  —  shadows  dis- 
possessed of  true  feeling  and  intelligence;  and  unlike 
those  Lamiae,  to  whom  Poliziano,  with  that  superficial 
ingenuity  which  I  do  not  deny  to  him,  compares  our 
[   74   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

inquisitive  Florentines,  because  they  put  on  their  eyes 
when  they  went  abroad,  and  took  them  off  when  they 
got  home  again,  I  have  returned  from  the  converse  of 
the  streets  as  from  a  forgotten  dream,  and  have  sat 
down  among  my  books,  saying  with  Petrarca,  the 
modern  who  is  least  unworthy  to  be  named  after 
the  ancients,  '  Libri  medullitus  delectant,  colloquuntur, 
consulunt,  et  viva  quadam  nobis  atque  arguta  familiar- 
itate  junguntur.'" 

"  And  in  one  thing  you  are  happier  than  your  favourite 
Petrarca,  father,"  said  Romola,  affectionately  humour- 
ing the  old  man's  disposition  to  dilate  in  this  way; 
"for  he  used  to  look  at  his  copy  of  Homer  and  think 
sadly  that  the  Greek  was  a  dead  letter  to  him:  so  far, 
he  had  the  inward  blindness  that  you  feel  is  worse 
than  your  outward  blindness." 

"True,  child;  for  I  carry  within  me  the  fruits  of 
that  fervid  study  which  I  gave  to  the  Greek  tongue 
under  the  teaching  of  the  younger  Crisolora,  and 
Filclfo,  and  Argiropulo;  though  that  great  work  in 
which  I  had  desired  to  gather,  as  into  a  firm  web,  all 
the  threads  that  my  research  had  laboriously  disen- 
tangled, and  which  would  have  been  the  vintage  of 
my  life,  was  cut  off  by  the  failure  of  my  sight  and  my 
want  of  a  fitting  coadjutor.  For  the  sustained  zeal  and 
unconquerable  patience  demanded  from  those  who 
would  tread  the  unbeaten  paths  of  knowledge  are  still 
less  reconcilable  with  the  wandering,  vagrant  propensity 
of  the  feminine  mind  than  with  the  feeble  powers  of 
the  feminine  body." 

"Father,"  said  Romola,  with  a  sudden  flush  and  in 
[   75   ] 


ROMOLA 

an  injured  tone,  '^I  read  anything  you  wish  me  to  read; 
and  I  will  look  out  any  passages  for  you,  and  make 
whatever  notes  you  want." 

Bardo  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  with  a  bitter  sort 
of  pity.  "As  well  try  to  be  a  pentathlos  and  perform 
all  the  five  feats  of  the  palaestra  with  the  limbs  of  a 
nymph.  Have  I  forgotten  thy  fainting  in  the  mere 
search  for  the  references  I  needed  to  explain  a  single 
passage  of  Callimachus  ?  " 

"But,  father,  it  was  the  weight  of  the  books,  and 
Maso  can  help  me;  it  was  not  want  of  attention  and 
patience." 

Bardo  shook  his  head  again.  "It  is  not  mere  bodily 
organs  that  I  want :  it  is  the  sharp  edge  of  a  young  mind 
to  pierce  the  way  for  my  somewhat  blunted  faculties. 
1  For  blindness  acts  like  a  dam,  sending  the  streams  of 
thought  backward  along  the  already-travelled  chan- 
»  nels  and  hindering  the  course  onward.  If  my  son  had 
not  forsaken  me,  deluded  by  debasing  fanatical  dreams, 
worthy  only  of  an  energumen  whose  dwelling  is  among 
tombs,  I  might  have  gone  on  and  seen  my  path  broaden- 
ing to  the  end  of  my  life;  for  he  was  a  youth  of  great 
promise.  .  .  .  But  it  has  closed  in  now,"  the  old  man 
continued,  after  a  short  pause;  "it  has  closed  in  now; 
—  all  but  the  narrow  track  he  has  left  me  to  tread  — 
alone  in  my  blindness." 

Romola  started  from  her  seat,  and  carried  away 
the  large  volume  to  its  place  again,  stung  too  acutely 
by  her  father's  last  words  to  remain  motionless  as 
well  as  silent;  and  when  she  turned  away  from  the 
shelf  again,  she  remained  standing  at  some  distance 
[   76    ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

from  him,  stretching  her  arms  downwards  and  clasp- 
ing her  fingers  tightly  as  she  looked  with  a  sad  dreari- 
ness in  her  young  face  at  the  lifeless  objects  around 
her  —  the  parchment  backs,  the  unchanging  mutilated 
marble,  the  bits  of  obsolete  bronze  and  clay. 

Bardo,  though  usually  susceptible  to  Romola's  move- 
ments and  eager  to  trace  them,  was  now  too  entirely 
preoccui)ied  by  the  pain  of  rankling  memories  to  notice 
her  departure  from  his  side. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  with  my  son  to  aid  me,  I  might 
have  had  my  due  share  in  the  triumphs  of  this  century : 
the  names  of  the  Bardi,  father  and  son,  might  have  been 
held  reverently  on  the  lips  of  scholars  in  the  ages  to 
come;  not  on  account  of  frivolous  verses  or  philosophical 
treatises,  which  are  superfluous  and  presumptuous 
attempts  to  imitate  the  inimitable,  such  as  allure  vain 
men  like  Panhormita,  and  from  which  even  the  ad-, 
mirable  Poggio  did  not  keep  himself  sufficiently  free; 
but  because  we  should  have  given  a  lamp  whereby 
men  might  have  studied  the  supreme  productions  of  the 
past.  For  why  is  a  young  man  like  Poliziano  (who 
was  not  yet  born  when  I  was  already  held  worthy 
to  maintain  a  discussion  with  Thomas  of  Sarzana)  to 
have  a  glorious  memory  as  a  commentator  on  the  Pan- 
dects —  why  is  Ficino,  whose  Latin  is  an  offence  to 
me,  and  who  wanders  purblind  among  the  superstitious 
fancies  that  marked  the  decline  at  once  of  art,  litera- 
ture, and  philosophy,  to  descend  to  posterity  as  the  very 
high  priest  of  Platonism,  while  I,  who  am  more  than 
their  equal,  have  not  effected  anything  but  scattered 
work,  which  will  be  appropriated  by  other  men  ?  Why  ? 
[   77   ] 


ROMOLA 

but  because  my  son,  whom  I  had  brought  up  to  replen- 
ish my  ripe  learning  with  young  enteq3rise,  left  me  and 
all  liberal  pursuits  that  he  might  lash  himself  and  howl 
at  midnight  with  besotted  friars  —  that  he  might  go 
wandering  on  pilgrimages  befitting  men  who  know  of 
no  past  older  than  the  missal  and  the  crucifix  ?  —  left 
me  when  the  night  was  already  beginning  to  fall  on 
me." 

In  these  last  words  the  old  man's  voice,  which  had 
risen  high  in  indignant  protest,  fell  into  a  tone  of  re- 
proach so  tremulous  and  plaintive  that  Romola,  turn- 
ing her  eyes  again  towards  the  blind  aged  face,  felt  her 
heart  swell  with  forgiving  pity.  She  seated  herself  by 
her  father  again,  and  placed  her  hand  on  his  knee  — 
too  proud  to  obtrude  consolation  in  words  that  might 
seem  like  a  vindication  of  her  own  value,  yet  wishing 
to  comfort  him  by  some  sign  of  her  presence. 

"Yes,  Romola,"  said  Bardo,  automatically  letting 
his  left  hand,  with  its  massive  prophylactic  rings,  fall 
a  little  too  heavily  on  the  delicate  blue-veined  back 
of  the  girl's  right,  so  that  she  bit  her  lip  to  prevent  her- 
self from  starting.  "  If  even  Florence  only  is  to  remem- 
ber me,  it  can  but  be  on  the  same  ground  that  it  will 
remember  Niccolo  NiccoH  —  because  I  forsook  the 
vulgar  pursuit  of  wealth  in  commerce  that  I  might 
devote  myself  to  collecting  the  precious  remains  of 
ancient  art  and  wisdom,  and  leave  them,  after  the  ex- 
ample of  the  munificent  Romans,  for  an  everlasting 
possession  to  my  fellow  citizens.  But  why  do  I  say 
Florence  only  ?  If  Florence  remembers  me,  will  not  the 
world  remember  me?  .  .  .  Yet,"  added  Bardo,  after 
[   78   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

a  short  pause,  his  voice  falling  again  into  a  saddened 
key,  "  Lorenzo's  untimely  death  has  raised  a  new  diffi- 
cuhy.   I  had  his  promise  —  I  should  have  had  his  bond 

—  that  my  collection  should  always  bear  my  name 
and  should  never  be  sold,  though  the  harpies  might 
clutch  everything  else;  but  there  is  enough  for  them 

—  there  is  more  than  enough  —  and  for  thee,  too, 
Romola,  there  will  be  enough.  Besides,  thou  wilt 
marry;  Bernardo  reproaches  me  that  I  do  not  seek  a 
fitting  parentado  for  thee,  and  we  will  delay  no  longer, 
we  will  think  about  it." 

"  No,  no,  father;  what  could  you  do  ?  besides,  it  is  use- 
less :  wait  till  some  one  seeks  me,"  said  Romola,  hastily. 

"Nay,  my  child,  that  is  not  the  paternal  duty.  It 
was  not  so  held  by  the  ancients,  and  in  this  respect 
Florentines  have  not  degenerated  from  their  ancestral 
customs." 

"But  I  will  study  diligently,"  said  Romola,  her 
eyes  dilating  with  anxiety.  "I  will  become  as  learned 
as  Cassandra  Fedele:  I  will  try  and  be  as  useful  to  you 
as  if  I  had  been  a  boy,  and  then  perhaps  some  great 
scholar  will  want  to  marry  me,  and  will  not  mind  about 
a  dowry;  and  he  will  like  to  come  and  live  with  you, 
and  he  will  be  to  you  in  place  of  my  brother  .  .  .  and 
you  will  not  be  sorry  that  I  was  a  daughter." 

There  was  a  rising  sob  in  Roraola's  voice  as  she 
said  the  last  words,  which  touched  the  fatherly  fibre 
in  Bardo.  He  stretched  his  hand  upward  a  little  in 
search  of  her  golden  hair,  and  as  she  placed  her  head 
under  his  hand,  he  gently  stroked  it,  leaning  towards 
her  as  if  his  eyes  discerned  some  glimmer  there. 
[   79   ] 


]  ;.V' 


ROMOLA 

"Nay,  Romola  mia,  I  said  not  so;  if  I  have  pro- 
nounced an  anathema  on  a  degenerate  and  ungrateful 
son,  I  said  not  that  I  could  wish  thee  other  than  the 
sweet  daughter  thou  hast  been  to  me.  For  what  son 
could  have  tended  me  so  gently  in  the  frequent  sickness 
I  have  had  of  late  ?  And  even  in  learning  thou  art  not, 
according  to  thy  measure,  contemptible.  Something 
perhaps  were  to  be  wished  in  thy  capacity  of  attention 
and  memory,  not  incompatible  even  with  feminine 
mind.  But  as  Calcondila  bore  testimony,  when  he  aided 
me  to  teach  tliee,  thou  hast  a  ready  apprehension,  and 
even  a  wide-glancing  intelligence.  And  thou  hast  a 
man's  nobility  of  soul:  thou  hast  never  fretted  me  with 
thy  petty  desires  as  thy  mother  did.  It  is  true,  I  have 
been  careful  to  keep  thee  aloof  from  the  debasing  in- 
fluence of  thy  own  sex,  with  their  sparrow-like  frivolity 
and  their  enslaving  superstition,  except,  indeed,  from 
that  of  our  Cousin  Brigida,  who  may  well  serve  as  a 
scarecrow  and  a  warning.  And  though  —  since  I  agree 
with  the  divine  Petrarca,  when  he  declares,  quoting  the 
*Aulularia'  of  Plautus,  who  again  was  indebted  for  the 
truth  to  the  supreme  Greek  intellect, '  Optimam  foemi- 
nam  nullam  esse,  alia  licet  alia  pejor  sit '  —  I  cannot 
boast  that  thou  art  entirely  lifted  out  of  that  lower  cate- 
gory to  which  Nature  assigned  thee,  nor  even  that  in 
erudition  thou  art  on  a  par  with  the  more  learned  women 
of  this  age;  thou  art,  nevertheless  —  yes,  Romola  mia," 
said  the  old  man,  his  pedantry  again  melting  into  ten- 
derness, "  thou  art  my  sweet  daughter,  and  thy  voice  is 
as  the  lower  notes  of  the  flute,  *  dulcis,  durabilis,  clara, 
pura,  secans  aera  et  auribus  sedens,'  according  to  the 
[   80   1 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

choice  words  of  Quintilian ;  and  Bernardo  tells  me  thou 
art  fair,  and  thy  hair  is  like  the  brightness  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  indeed  it  seems  to  me  that  I  discern  some  ra- 
diance from  thee.  Ah !  I  know  how  all  else  looks  in  this 
room,  but  thy  form  I  only  guess  at.  Thou  art  no  longer 
the  little  woman  six  years  old,  that  faded  for  me  into 
darkness;  thou  art  tall,  and  thy  arm  is  but  little  below 
mine.    Let  us  walk  together." 

The  old  man  rose,  and  Romola,  soothed  by  these 
beams  of  tenderness,  looked  happy  again  as  she  drew 
his  arm  within  hers,  and  placed  in  his  right  hand  the 
stick  which  rested  at  the  side  of  his  chair.  While  Bardo 
had  been  sitting,  he  had  seemed  hardly  more  than  sixty: 
his  face,  though  pale,  had  that  refined  texture  in  which 
wrinkles  and  lines  are  never  deep;  but  now  that  he  began 
to  walk  he  looked  as  old  as  he  really  was  —  rather  more 
than  seventy;  for  his  tall  spare  frame  had  the  student's 
stoop  of  the  shoulders,  and  he  stepped  with  the  unde- 
cided gait  of  the  bhnd. 

"  No,  Romola,"  he  said,  pausing  against  the  bust  of 
Hadrian,  and  passing  his  stick  from  the  right  to  the  left 
that  he  might  explore  the  familiar  outline  with  a  "  seeing 
hand."  "There  will  be  nothing  else  to  preserve  my 
memory  and  carry  down  my  name  as  a  member  of  the 
great  republic  of  letters — nothing  but  my  library  and 
my  collection  of  antiquities.  And  they  are  choice," 
continued  Bardo,  pressing  the  l)ust  and  speaking  in 
a  tone  of  insistence.  "The  collections  of  Niccolo  I 
know  were  larger;  but  take  any  collection  which  is 
tlie  work  of  a  single  man  —  that  of  the  great  Boccaccio 
even  —  mine  will  surpass  it.  That  of  Poggio  was  con- 
[    81    ] 


ROMOLA 

temptible  compared  with  mine.  It  will  be  a  great 
gift  to  unborn  scholars.  And  there  is  nothing  else. 
For  even  if  I  were  to  yield  to  the  wish  of  Aldo  Manuzio 
when  he  sets  up  his  press  at  Venice,  and  give  him  the  aid 
of  my  annotated  manuscripts,  I  know  well  what  would 
be  the  result:  some  other  scholar's  name  would  stand 
on  the  title-page  of  the  edition  —  some  scholar  who 
would  have  fed  on  my  honey,  and  then  declared  in  his 
preface  that  he  had  gathered  it  all  himself  fresh  from 
Hymettus.  Else,  why  have  I  refused  the  loan  of  many 
an  annotated  codex  ?  why  have  I  refused  to  make  public 
any  of  my  translations  ?  why  ?  but  because  scholarship 
is  a  system  of  licensed  robbery,  and  your  man  in  scarlet 
and  furred  robe  who  sits  in  judgement  on  thieves,  is  him- 
self a  thief  of  the  thoughts  and  the  fame  that  belong  to 
his  fellows.  But  against  that  robbery  Bardo  de'  Bardi 
shall  struggle  —  though  blind  and  forsaken,  he  shall 
struggle.  I  too  have  a  right  to  be  remembered  —  as 
great  a  right  as  Pontanus  or  Merula,  whose  names  will 
be  foremost  on  the  lips  of  posterity,  because  they  sought 
patronage  and  found  it;  because  they  had  tongues  that 
could  flatter,  and  blood  that  was  used  to  be  nourished 
from  the  client's  basket.  I  have  a  right  to  be  remem- 
bered." 

The  old  man's  voice  had  become  at  once  loud  and 
tremulous,  and  a  pink  flush  overspread  his  proud,  deli- 
cately-cut features,  while  the  habitually  raised  attitude 
of  his  head  gave  the  idea  that  behind  the  curtain  of  his 
blindness  he  saw  some  imaginary  high  tribunal  to  which 
he  was  appealing  against  the  injustice  of  Fame. 

Romola  was  moved  with  sympathetic  indignation, 

[   82   ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

for  in  her  nature  too  there  lay  the  same  large  claims,  and 
the  same  spirit  of  struggle  against  their  denial.  She 
tried  to  calm  her  father  by  a  still  prouder  word  than  his. 

"Nevertheless,  father,  it  is  a  great  gift  of  the  gods  to 
be  bom  with  a  hatred  and  contempt  of  all  injustice  and 
meanness.  Yours  is  a  higher  lot,  never  to  have  lied  and 
truckled,  than  to  have  shared  honours  won  by  dishon- 
our. There  is  strength  in  scorn,  as  there  was  in  the  mar- 
tial fury  by  which  men  became  insensible  to  wounds." 

"It  is  well  said,  Romola.  It  is  a  Promethean  word 
thou  hast  uttered,"  answered  Bardo,  after  a  little  inter- 
val in  which  he  had  begun  to  lean  on  his  stick  again,  and 
to  walk  on.  "And  I  indeed  am  not  to  be  pierced  by  the 
shafts  of  Fortune.  My  armour  is  the  aes  triplex  of  a  clear 
conscience,  and  a  mind  nourished  by  the  precepts  of 
philosophy.  'For  men,'  says  Epictetus,  'are  disturbed 
not  by  things  themselves,  but  by  their  opinions  or 
thoughts  concerning  those  things.'  And  again,  *  whoso- 
ever will  be  free,  let  him  not  desire  or  dread  that  which 
it  is  in  the  power  of  others  either  to  deny  or  inflict: 
otherwise,  he  is  a  slave.'  And  of  all  such  gifts  as  are 
dependent  on  the  caprice  of  fortune  or  of  men,  I  have 
long  ago  learned  to  say,  with  Horace, —  who,  however, 
is  too  wavering  in  his  philosophy,  vacillating  between 
the  precepts  of  Zeno  and  the  less  worthy  maxims  of 
Epicurus,  and  attempting,  as  we  say,  *  duabus  sellis  se- 
dere,' —  concerning  such  accidents,  I  say,  with  the  preg- 
nant brevity  of  the  poet,  — 

*  Sunt  qui  non  habeant,  est  qui  non  curat  habere.' 

He  is  referring  to  gems,  and  purple,  and  other  insignia 
[   83   ] 


ROMOLA 

of  wealth;  but  I  may  apply  his  words  not  less  justly  to 
the  tributes  men  pay  us  with  their  lips  and  their  pens, 
which  are  also  matters  of  purchase,  and  often  with 
base  coin.  Yes,  '  inanis '  —  hollow,  empty  —  is  the 
epithet  justly  bestowed  on  Fame." 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  room  in  silence  after  this; 
but  Bardo's  lip-born  maxims  were  as  powerless  over  the 
passion  which  had  been  moving  him,  as  if  they  had  been 
written  on  parchment  and  hung  round  his  neck  in  a 
sealed  bag;  and  he  presently  broke  forth  again  in  a  new 
tone  of  insistence. 

"  Inanis  ?  yes,  if  it  is  a  lying  fame;  but  not  if  it  is  the 
just  meed  of  labour  and  a  great  purpose.  I  claim  my 
right:  it  is  not  fair  that  the  work  of  my  brain  and  my 
hands  should  not  be  a  monument  to  me  —  it  is  not  just 
that  my  labour  should  bear  the  name  of  another  man. 
It  is  but  little  to  ask,"  the  old  man  went  on,  bitterly, 
"  that  my  name  should  be  over  the  door  —  that  men 
should  own  themselves  debtors  to  the  Bardi  Library 
in  Florence.  They  will  speak  coldly  of  me,  perhaps: 
*  a  diligent  collector  and  transcriber,'  they  will  say,  '  and 
also  of  some  critical  ingenuity,  but  one  who  could 
hardly  be  conspicuous  in  an  age  so  fruitful  in  illustrious 
scholars.  Yet  he  merits  our  pity,  for  in  the  latter  years 
of  his  life  he  was  blind,  and  his  only  son,  to  whose  edu- 
cation he  had  devoted  his  best  years  — '  Nevertheless, 
my  name  will  be  remembered,  and  men  will  honour  me: 
not  with  the  breath  of  flattery,  purchased  by  mean 
bribes,  but  because  I  have  laboured,  and  because  my 
labours  will  remain.  Debts!  I  know  there  arc  debts; 
and  there  is  thy  dowry,  Romola,  to  be  paid .  But  tliere 
[   84    ] 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR 

must  be  enough  —  or,  at  least,  there  can  lack  but  a 
small  sum,  such  as  the  Signoria  might  well  provide. 
And  if  Lorenzo  had  not  died,  all  would  have  been  se- 
cured and  settled.  But  now  ..." 

At  this  moment  Maso  opened  the  door,  and  advanc- 
ing to  liis  master,  announced  that  Nello,  the  barber, 
had  desired  him  to  say  that  he  was  come  with  the  Greek 
scholar  whom  he  had  asked  leave  to  introduce. 
"  It  is  well,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Bring  them  in.'* 
Bardo,  conscious  that  he  looked  more  dependent 
when  he  was  walking,  liked  always  to  be  seated  in  the 
presence  of  strangers,  and  Romola,  without  needing  to 
be  told,  conducted  him  to  his  chair.  She  was  standing 
by  him  at  her  full  height,  in  quiet  majestic  self-posses- 
sion, when  the  visitors  entered;  and  the  most  penetrat- 
ing observer  would  hardly  have  divined  that  this  proud 
pale  face,  at  the  slightest  touch  on  the  fibres  of  affection 
or  pity,  could  become  passionate  with  tenderness,  or 
that  tliis  woman,  who  imposed  a  certain  awe  on  those 
who  approached  her,  was  in  a  state  of  girlish  simplicity 
and  ignorance  concerning  the  world  outside  her  father's 
books. 


CHAPTER   VI 
DAWNING  HOPES 

WHEN  Maso  opened  the  door  again,  and  ushered 
in  the  two  visitors,  Nello,  first  making  a  deep 
reverence  to  Romola,  gently  pushed  Tito  before  him, 
and  advanced  with  him  towards  her  father. 

"Messer  Bardo,"  he  said,  in  a  more  measured  and 
respectful  tone  than  was  usual  with  him,  "I  have  the 
honour  of  presenting  to  you  the  Greek  scholar,  who 
has  been  eager  to  have  speech  of  you,  not  less  from  the 
report  I  have  made  to  him  of  your  learning  and  your 
priceless  collections,  than  because  of  the  furtherance 
your  patronage  may  give  him  under  the  transient  need 
to  which  he  has  been  reduced  by  shipwreck.  His  name 
is  Tito  Melema,  at  your  service." 

Romola's  astonishment  could  hardly  have  been 
greater  if  the  stranger  had  worn  a  panther-skin  and 
carried  a  thyrsus;  for  the  cunning  barber  had  said 
nothing  of  the  Greek's  age  or  appearance;  and  among 
her  father's  scholarly  visitors,  she  had  hardly  ever  seen 
any  but  middle-aged  or  grey-headed  men.  There 
was  only  one  masculine  face,  at  once  youthful  and 
beautiful,  the  image  of  which  remained  deeply  im- 
pressed on  her  mind :  it  was  that  of  her  brother,  who 
long  years  ago  had  taken  her  on  his  knee,  kissed  her, 
and  never  come  back  again :  a  fair  face,  with  sunny  hair, 
like  her  own.  But  the  habitual  attitude  of  her  mind 
[   86   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

towards  strangers  —  a  proud  self-dependence  and  de- 
termination to  ask  for  nothing  even  by  a  smile  —  con- 
firmed in  her  by  her  father's  complaints  against  the 
world's  injustice,  was  like  a  snowy  embankment  hem- 
ming in  the  rush  of  admiring  surprise.  Tito's  bright 
face  showed  its  rich-tinted  beauty  without  any  rivalry 
of  colour  above  his  black  sajo  or  tunic  reaching  to  the 
knees.  It  seemed  like  a  wreath  of  spring,  dropped 
suddenly  in  Romola's  young  but  wintry  life,  which  had 
inherited  nothing  but  memories  —  memories  of  a  dead 
mother,  of  a  lost  brother,  of  a  blind  father's  happier 
time —  memories  of  far-off  light,  love,  and  beauty,  that 
lay  embedded  in  dark  mines  of  books,  and  could  hardly  i 
give  out  their  brightness  again  until  they  were  kindled 
for  her  by  the  torch  of  some  known  joy.  Nevertheless,  t 
she  returned  Tito's  bow,  made  to  her  on  entering,  [ 
with  the  same  pale  proud  face  as  ever;  but,  as  he  ap- 
proached, the  snow  melted,  and  when  he  ventured  to 
look  towards  her  again,  while  NcUo  was  speaking,  a 
pink  flush  overspread  her  face,  to  vanish  again  almost  I 
immediately,  as  if  her  imperious  will  had  recalled  it. 
Tito's  glance,  on  the  contrary,  had  that  gentle,  beseech- 
ing admiration  in  it  which  is  the  most  propitiating  of 
appeals  to  a  proud,  shy  woman,  and  is  perhaps  the  only 
atonement  a  man  can  make  for  being  too  handsome. 
The  finished  fascination  of  his  air  came  chiefly  from 
the  absence  of  demand  and  assumption.  It  was  that  of 
a  fleet,  soft-coated,  dark-eyed  animal  that  delights  you 
by  not  bounding  away  in  indifTercncc  from  you,  and 
unexpectedly  pillows  its  chin  on  your  palm,  and  looks 
up  at  you  desiring  to  be  stroked  —  as  if  it  loved  you. 
[   87   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Messere,  I  give  you  welcome,"  said  Bardo,  with 
some  condescension ;  "  misfortune  wedded  to  learning, 
and  especially  to  Greek  learning,  is  a  letter  of  credit 
that  should  win  the  ear  of  every  instructed  Florentine; 
for,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware,  since  the  period  when 
your  countryman,  Manuelo  Crisolora,  diffused  the 
light  of  his  teaching  in  the  chief  cities  of  Italy,  now 
nearly  a  century  ago,  no  man  is  held  worthy  of  the 
name  of  scholar  who  has  acquired  merely  the  trans- 
planted and  derivative  literature  of  the  Latins;  rather, 
such  inert  students  are  stigmatized  as  opici  or  barba- 
rians according  to  the  phrase  of  the  Romans  themselves, 
who  frankly  replenished  their  urns  at  the  fountain- 
head.  I  am,  as  you  perceive,  and  as  Nello  has  doubt- 
less forewarned  you,  totally  blind:  a  calamity  to  which 
we  Florentines  are  held  especially  liable,  whether  owing 
to  the  cold  winds  which  rush  upon  us  in  spring  from 
the  passes  of  the  Apennines,  or  to  that  sudden  transi- 
tion from  the  cool  gloom  of  our  houses  to  the  dazzling 
brightness  of  our  summer  sun,  by  which  the  lippi  are 
said  to  have  been  made  so  numerous  among  the  ancient 
Romans;  or,  in  fine,  to  some  occult  cause  which  eludes 
our  superficial  surmises.  But  I  pray  you  be  seated: 
Nello,  my  friend,  be  seated." 

Bardo  paused  until  his  fine  ear  had  assured  him  that 
the  visitors  were  seating  themselves,  and  that  Romola 
was  taking  her  usual  chair  at  his  right  hand.  Then  he 
said,  — 

"  From  what  part  of  Greece  do  you  come,  Messere  ? 
I  had  thought  that  your  unhappy  country  had  been 
almost  exhausted  of  those  sons  who  could  cherish  in 
[   88   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

their  minds  any  image  of  her  original  glory,  though 
indeed  the  barbarous  Sultans  have  of  late  shown 
themselves  not  indisposed  to  engraft  on  their  wild  stock 
the  precious  vine  which  their  own  fierce  bands  have 
hewn  down  and  trampled  under  foot.  From  what  part 
of  Greece  do  you  come  ? " 

"  I  sailed  last  from  Nauplia,"  said  Tito ;  "  but  I  have 
resided  both  at  Constantinople  and  Thessalonica,  and 
have  travelled  in  various  parts  little  visited  by  Western 
Christians  since  the  triumph  of  the  Turkish  arms.  I 
should  tell  you,  however,  Messere,  that  I  was  not  born 
in  Greece,  but  at  Bari.  I  spent  the  first  sixteen  years 
of  my  life  in  Southern  Italy  and  Sicily." 

While  Tito  was  speaking,  some  emotion  passed,  like 
a  breath  on  the  waters,  across  Bardo's  delicate  features; 
he  leaned  forward,  put  out  his  right  hand  towards 
Romola,  and  turned  his  head  as  if  about  to  speak  to 
her;  but  then,  correcting  himself,  turned  away  again, 
and  said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  — 

"Excuse  me;  is  it  not  true  —  you  are  young?" 

"I  am  three-and-twenty,"  said  Tito. 

"Ah,"  said  Bardo,  still  in  a  tone  of  subdued  ex- 
citement, "and  you  had,  doubtless,  a  father  who  cared 
for  your  early  instruction  —  who,  perhaps,  was  him- 
self a  scholar  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  Tito's  answer  came 
to  the  ear  of  Bardo;  but  for  Romola  and  Ncllo  it  began 
with  a  slight  shock  that  seemed  to  pass  through  him, 
and  cause  a  momentary  quivering  of  the  lip;  doubtless 
at  the  revival  of  a  supremely  painful  remembrance. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "at  least  a  father  by  adoption. 
[   89   ] 


ROMOLA 

He  was  a  Neapolitan,  and  of  accomplished  scholar- 
ship, both  Latin  and  Greek.  But,"  added  Tito,  after 
another  slight  pause,  "  he  is  lost  to  me  —  was  lost  on 
a  voyage  he  too  rashly  undertook  to  Delos." 

Bardo  sank  backward  again,  too  delicate  to  ask 
another  question  that  might  probe  a  sorrow  which 
he  divined  to  be  recent.  Romola,  who  knew  well  what 
were  the  fibres  that  Tito's  voice  had  stirred  in  her  father, 
felt  that  this  new  acquaintance  had  with  wonderful 
suddenness  got  within  the  barrier  that  lay  between 
them  and  the  alien  world.  Nello,  thinking  that  the  evi- 
dent check  given  to  the  conversation  offered  a  graceful 
opportunity  for  relieving  himself  from  silence,  said,  — 

"In  truth,  it  is  as  clear  as  Venetian  glass  that  this 
fine  young  man  has  had  the  best  training;  for  the  two 
Cennini  have  set  him  to  work  at  their  Greek  sheets 
already,  and  it  seems  to  me  they  are  not  men  to  begin 
cutting  before  they  have  felt  the  edge  of  their  tools; 
they  tested  him  well  beforehand,  we  may  be  sure,  and 
if  there  are  two  things  not  to  be  hidden  —  love  and  a 
cough  —  I  say  there  is  a  third,  and  that  is  ignorance, 
when  once  a  man  is  obliged  to  do  something  besides 
wagging  his  head.  The  tonsor  inequalis  is  inevitably 
betrayed  when  he  takes  the  shears  in  his  hand;  is  it 
not  true,  Messer  Bardo  ?  I  speak  after  the  fashion  of 
a  barber,  but,  as  Luigi  Pulci  says,  — 

•Perdonimi  s'  io  fallo:  chi  m'  ascolta 
Intenda  il  mio  volgar  col  suo  latino.'" 

"Nay,  my  good  Nello,"  said  Bardo,  with  an  air  of 
friendly  severity,   "you   are  not  altogether   illiterate, 
[   90   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

and  might  doubtless  have  made  a  more  respectable 
progress  in  learning  if  you  had  abstained  somewhat 
from  the  cicalata  and  gossip  of  the  street-corner,  to 
which  our  Florentines  are  excessively  addicted;  but 
still  more  if  you  had  not  clogged  your  memory  with 
those  frivolous  productions  of  which  Luigi  Pulci  has 
furnished  the  most  peccant  exemplar  —  a  compend- 
ium of  extravagances  and  incongruities  the  farthest 
removed  from  the  models  of  a  pure  age,  and  resembling 
rather  the  grylli  or  conceits  of  a  period  when  mystic 
meaning  was  held  a  warrant  for  monstrosity  of  form; 
with  this  difference,  that  while  the  monstrosity  is  re- 
tained, the  mystic  meaning  is  absent;  in  contemptible 
contrast  with  the  great  poem  of  Virgil,  who,  as  I  long 
held  with  Filelfo,  before  Landino  had  taken  upon  him  to 
expound  the  same  opinion,  embodied  the  deepest  lessons 
of  philosophy  in  a  graceful  and  well-knit  fable.  And  I 
cannot  but  regard  the  multiplication  of  these  babbling, 
lawless  productions,  albeit  countenanced  by  the  pat- 
ronage, and  in  some  degree  the  example  of  Lorenzo 
himself,  otherwise  a  friend  to  true  learning,  as  a  sign 
that  the  glorious  hopes  of  this  century  are  to  be  quenched 
in  gloom;  nay,  that  they  have  been  the  delusive  pro- 
logue to  an  age  worse  than  that  of  iron  —  the  age  of 
tinsel  and  gossamer,  in  which  no  thought  has  substance 
enough  to  be  moulded  into  consistent  and  lasting  form." 
"Once  more,  pardon,"  said  Nello,  opening  his 
palms  outwards,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  I  find 
myself  knowing  so  many  things  in  good  Tuscan  before 
I  have  time  to  think  of  the  Latin  for  them;  and  Messer 
Luigi's  rhymes  are  always  slipping  off  the  lips  of  my 

[   91    ] 


ROMOLA 

customers :  —  that  is  what  corrupts  me.  And,  indeed, 
talking  of  customers,  I  have  left  my  shop  and  my  re- 
putation too  long  in  the  custody  of  my  slow  Sandro, 
who  does  not  deserve  even  to  be  called  a  tonsor  inequalis, 
but  rather  to  be  pronounced  simply  a  bungler  in  the 
vulgar  tongue.  So  with  your  permission,  Messer  Bardo, 
I  will  take  my  leave  —  well  understood  that  I  am  at 
your  service  whenever  Maso  calls  upon  me.  It  seems 
a  thousand  years  till  I  dress  and  perfume  the  damigella's 
hair,  which  deserves  to  shine  in  the  heavens  as  a  con- 
stellation, though  indeed  it  were  a  pity  for  it  ever  to 
go  so  far  out  of  reach." 

Three  voices  made  a  fugue  of  friendly  farewells 
to  Nello,  as  he  retreated  with  a  bow  to  Romola  and 
a  beck  to  Tito.  The  acute  barber  saw  that  the  pretty 
youngster,  who  had  crept  into  his  liking  by  some  strong 
magic,  was  well  launched  in  Bardo's  favourable  regard ; 
and  satisfied  that  his  introduction  had  not  miscarried 
so  far,  he  felt  the  propriety  of  retiring. 

The  little  burst  of  wrath,  called  forth  by  Nello's 
unlucky  quotation,  had  diverted  Bardo's  mind  from 
the  feelings  which  had  just  before  been  hemming  in 
further  speech,  and  he  now  addressed  Tito  again  with 
his  ordinary  calmness. 

"Ah!  young  man,  you  are  happy  in  having  been  able 
to  unite  the  advantages  of  travel  with  those  of  study, 
and  you  will  be  welcome  among  us  as  a  bringer  of  fresh 
tidings  from  a  land  which  has  become  sadly  strange  to 
us,  except  through  the  agents  of  a  now  restricted  com- 
merce and  the  reports  of  hasty  pilgrims.  For  those  days 
are  in  the  far  distance  which  I  myself  witnessed,  when 
[   92   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

men  like  Aurispa  and  Guarino  went  out  to  Greece  as  to 
a  storehouse,  and  came  back  laden  with  manuscripts 
which  every  scholar  was  eager  to  borrow  —  and,  be  it 
owned  with  shame,  not  always  willing  to  restore;  nay, 
even  the  days  when  erudite  Greeks  flocked  to  our  shores 
for  a  refuge,  seem  far  off  now  —  farther  off  than  the  on- 
coming of  my  blindness.  But  doubtless,  young  man, 
research  after  the  treasures  of  antiquity  was  not  alien  to 
the  purpose  of  your  travels  ?  " 

"Assuredly  not,"  said  Tito.  "On  the  contrary,  my 
companion  —  my  father  —  was  willing  to  risk  his  life 
in  his  zeal  for  the  discovery  of  inscriptions  and  other 
traces  of  ancient  civilization." 

"And  I  trust  there  is  a  record  of  his  researches  and 
their  results,"  said  Bardo,  eagerly,  "  since  they  must  be 
even  more  precious  than  those  of  Ciriaco,  which  I  have 
diligently  availed  myself  of,  though  they  are  not  always 
illuminated  by  adequate  learning." 

"There  was  such  a  record,"  said  Tito,  "but  it  was 
lost,  like  everything  else,  in  the  shipwreck  I  suffered 
below  Ancona.  The  only  record  left  is  such  as  remains 
in  our  —  in  my  memory." 

"You  must  lose  no  time  in  committing  it  to  paper, 
young  man,"  said  Bardo,  with  growing  interest.  "Doubt- 
less you  remember  much,  if  you  aided  in  transcription; 
for  when  I  was  your  age,  words  wrought  themselves  into 
my  mind  as  if  they  had  been  fixed  by  the  tool  of  the 
graver;  wherefore  I  constantly  marvel  at  the  capricious- 
ness  of  my  daughter's  memory,  which  grasps  certain 
objects  with  tenacity,  and  lets  fall  all  those  minutiae 
whereon  depends  accuracy,  the  very  soul  of  scholarship. 
[   93   ] 


ROMOLA 

But  I  apprehend  no  such  danger  with  you,  young  man, 
if  your  will  has  seconded  the  advantages  of  your  train- 
ing." 

When  Bardo  made  this  reference  to  his  daughter, 
Tito  ventured  to  turn  his  eyes  towards  her,  and  at  the 
accusation  against  her  memory  his  face  broke  into  its 
brightest  smile,  which  was  reflected  as  inevitably  as 
sudden  sunbeams  in  Romola's.  Conceive  the  soothing 
delight  of  that  smile  to  her !  Romola  had  never  dreamed 
that  there  was  a  scholar  in  the  world  who  would  smile  at 
a  deficiency  for  which  she  was  constantly  made  to  feel 
herself  a  culprit.  It  was  like  the  dawn  of  a  new  sense  to 
her  —  the  sense  of  comradeship.  They  did  not  look 
away  from  each  other  immediately,  as  if  the  smile  had 
been  a  stolen  one;  they  looked  and  smiled  with  frank 
enjoyment. 

"  She  is  not  really  so  cold  and  proud,"  thought  Tito. 

"Does  he  forget  too,  I  wonder?"  thought  Romola. 
"Yet  I  hope  not,  else  he  will  vex  my  father." 

But  Tito  was  obliged  to  turn  away,  and  answer 
Bardo's  question. 

"  I  have  had  much  practice  in  transcription,"  he  said; 
"but  in  the  case  of  inscriptions  copied  in  memorable 
scenes,  rendered  doubly  impressive  by  the  sense  of  risk 
and  adventure,  it  may  have  happened  that  my  retention 
of  written  characters  has  been  weakened.  On  the  plain 
of  the  Eurotas,  or  among  the  gigantic  stones  of  Mycenae 
and  Tyriiis,  —  especially  when  the  fear  of  the  Turk 
hovers  over  one  like  a  vulture,  —  the  mind  wanders,  even 
though  the  hand  writes  faithfully  what  the  eye  dictates. 
But  something  doubtless  I  have  retained,"  added  Tito, 
[   94   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

with  a  modesty  which  was  not  false,  though  he  was  con- 
scious that  it  was  politic,  "something  that  might  be  of 
service  if  illustrated  and  corrected  by  a  wider  learning 
than  my  own." 

"That  is  well  spoken,  young  man,"  said  Bardo,  de- 
lighted. "And  I  will  not  withhold  from  you  such  aid 
as  I  can  give,  if  you  like  to  communicate  with  me  con- 
cerning your  recollections.  I  foresee  a  work  which  will 
be  a  useful  supplement  to  the  '  Isolario '  of  Christoforo 
Buondelmonte,  and  which  may  take  rank  with  the '  Itin- 
eraria'  of  Ciriaco  and  the  admirable  Ambrogio  Tra- 
versari.  But  we  must  prepare  ourselves  for  calumny, 
young  man,"  Bardo  went  on  with  energy,  as  if  the  work 
were  already  growing  so  fast  that  the  time  of  trial  was 
near;  "if  your  book  contains  novelties  you  will  be 
charged  with  forgery;  if  my  elucidations  should  clash 
with  any  principles  of  interpretation  adopted  by  another 
scholar,  our  personal  characters  will  be  attacked,  we 
shall  be  impeached  with  foul  actions;  you  must  prepare 
yourself  to  be  told  that  your  mother  was  a  fish-woman, 
and  that  your  father  was  a  renegade  priest  or  a  hanged 
malefactor.  I  myself,  for  having  shown  error  in  a  single 
preposition,  had  an  invective  written  against  me  wherein 
I  was  taxed  with  treachery,  fraud,  indecency,  and  even 
hideous  crimes.  Such,  my  young  friend,  —  such  are  the 
flowers  with  which  the  glorious  path  of  scholarship  is 
strewed!  But  tell  me,  then:  I  have  learned  much  con- 
cerning Byzantium  and  Thessalonica  long  ago  from 
Demetrio  Calcondila,  who  has  but  lately  departed  from 
Florence;  but  you,  it  seems,  have  visited  less  familiar 
scenes  ? " 

[   95   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Yes;  we  made  what  I  may  call  a  pilgrimage  full  of 
danger,  for  the  sake  of  visiting  places  which  have  al- 
most died  out  of  the  memory  of  the  West,  for  they  lie 
away  from  the  track  of  pilgrims;  and  my  father  used 
to  say  that  scholars  themselves  hardly  imagine  them  to 
have  any  existence  out  of  books.  He  was  of  opinion  that 
a  new  and  more  glorious  era  would  open  for  learning 
when  men  should  begin  to  look  for  their  commentaries 
on  the  ancient  writers  in  the  remains  of  cities  and  tem- 
ples, nay,  in  the  paths  of  the  rivers,  and  on  the  face  of 
the  valleys  and  the  mountains." 

"Ah!"  said  Bardo,  fervidly,  "your  father,  then,  was 
not  a  common  man.  Was  he  fortunate,  may  I  ask  ? 
Had  he  many  friends  ? "  These  last  words  were  uttered 
in  a  tone  charged  with  meaning. 

"No;  he  made  enemies  —  chiefly,  I  believe,  by  a  cer- 
tain impetuous  candour;  and  they  hindered  his  advance- 
ment, so  that  he  lived  in  obscurity.  And  he  would  never 
stoop  to  conciliate:  he  could  never  forget  an  injury." 

"Ah!"  said  Bardo  again,  with  a  long,  deep  intonation. 

"Among  our  hazardous  expeditions,"  continued  Tito, 
willing  to  prevent  further  questions  on  a  point  so  per- 
sonal, "  I  remember  with  particular  vividness  a  hastily 
snatched  visit  to  Athens.  Our  hurr}%  and  the  double 
danger  of  being  seized  as  prisoners  by  the  Turks,  and  of 
our  galley  raising  anchor  before  we  could  return,  made 
it  seem  like  a  fevered  vision  of  the  night  —  the  wide 
plain,  the  girdling  mountains,  the  ruined  porticoes  and 
columns,  either  standing  far  aloof,  as  if  receding  from 
our  hurried  footsteps,  or  else  jammed  in  confusedly 
among  the  dwellings  of  Christians  degraded  into  servi- 
[   96   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

tude,  or  among  the  forts  and  turrets  of  their  Moslem  con- 
querors, who  have  their  stronghold  on  the  Acropolis." 

"You  fill  me  with  surprise,"  said  Bardo.  "Athens, 
then,  is  not  utterly  destroyed  and  swept  away,  as  I  had 
imagined  ? " 

"No  wonder  you  should  be  under  that  mistake,  for 
few  even  of  the  Greeks  themselves,  who  live  beyond  the 
mountain  boundary  of  Attica,  know  anything  about  the 
present  condition  of  Athens,  or  Setine,  as  the  sailors  call 
it.  I  remember,  as  we  w^ere  rounding  the  promontory  of 
Sunium,  the  Greek  pilot  we  had  on  board  our  Venetian 
galley  pointed  to  the  mighty  columns  that  stand  on  the 
summit  of  the  rock  —  the  remains,  as  you  know  well, 
of  the  great  temple  erected  to  the  goddess  Athena,  who 
looked  down  from  that  high  shrine  with  triumph  at  her 
conquered  rival  Poseidon;  —  well,  our  Greek  pilot, 
pointing  to  those  columns,  said,  'That  was  the  school 
of  the  great  philosopher  Aristotle.'  And  at  Athens  itself, 
the  monk  who  acted  as  our  guide  in  the  hasty  view  we 
snatched,  insisted  most  on  showing  us  the  spot  where 
Saint  Philip  baptized  the  Ethiopian  eunuch,  or  some 
such  legend." 

"Talk  not  of  monks  and  their  legends,  young  man!" 
said  Bardo,  interrupting  Tito  impetuously.  "Tt  is 
enough  to  overlay  human  hope  and  enterprise  with  an 
eternal  frost  to  think  that  the  ground  which  was  trodden 
by  philosophers  and  poets  is  crawled  over  by  those  in- 
sect-swarms of  besotted  fanatics  or  howling  hypocrites." 

"Perdio,  I  have  no  affection  for  them,"  said  Tito, 
with  a  shrug;  "servitude  agrees  well  with  a  religion  like       \^ 
theirs,  which  lies  in  the  renunciation  of  all  that  makes 
[   97   ] 


ROMOLA 

life  precious  to  other  men.  And  they  cany  the  yoke 
that  befits  them:  their  matin  chant  is  drowned  by  the 
voice  of  the  muezzin,  who,  from  the  gallery  of  the  high 
tower  on  the  Acropolis,  calls  every  Mussulman  to  his 
prayers.  That  tower  springs  from  the  Parthenon  itself; 
and  every  time  we  paused  and  directed  our  eyes  towards 
it,  our  guide  set  up  a  wail,  that  a  temple  which  had  once 
been  won  from  the  diabolical  uses  of  the  pagans  to 
become  the  temple  of  another  virgin  than  Pallas — the 
Virgin-Mother  of  God — was  now  again  perverted  to  the 
accursed  ends  of  the  Moslem.  It  was  the  sight  of  those 
walls  of  the  Acropolis,  which  disclosed  themselves  in 
the  distance  as  we  leaned  over  the  side  of  our  galley 
when  it  was  forced  by  contrary  winds  to  anchor  in  the 
Piraeus,  that  fired  my  father's  mind  with  the  determina- 
tion to  see  Athens  at  all  risks,  and  in  spite  of  the  sailors ' 
warnings  that  if  we  lingered  till  a  change  of  wind,  they 
would  depart  without  us:  but,  after  all,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  us  to  venture  near  the  Acropolis,  for  the  sight 
of  men  eager  in  examining  '  old  stones '  raised  the  sus- 
picion that  we  were  Venetian  spies,  and  we  had  to  hurry 
back  to  the  harbour," 

"We  will  talk  more  of  these  things,"  said  Bardo, 
eagerly.  "You  must  recall  everything,  to  the  minutest 
trace  left  in  your  memory.  You  will  win  the  gratitude  of 
after-times  by  leaving  a  record  of  the  aspect  Greece  bore 
while  yet  the  barbarians  had  not  swept  away  everj'  trace 
of  the  structures  that  Pausanias  and  Pliny  described: 
you  will  take  those  great  writers  as  your  models;  and 
such  contribution  of  criticism  and  suggestion  as  my 
riper  mind  can  supply  shall  not  be  wanting  to  you. 
[   98   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

There  will  be  much  to  tell;  for  you  have  travelled,  you 
said,  in  the  Peloponnesus  ?  " 

"  Yes;  and  in  Boeotia  also:  I  have  rested  in  the  groves 
of  Helicon,  and  tasted  of  the  fountain  Hippocrene.  But 
on  every  memorable  spot  in  Greece  conquest  after  con- 
quest has  set  its  seal,  till  there  is  a  confusion  of  owner- 
ship even  in  ruins,  that  only  close  study  and  comparison 
could  unravel.  High  over  every  fastness,  from  the  plains 
of  Lacedaemon  to  the  straits  of  Thermopylae,  there 
towers  some  huge  Prankish  fortress,  once  inhabited 
by  a  French  or  Italian  marquis,  now  either  abandoned 
or  held  by  Turkish  bands." 

*'  Stay ! "  cried  Bardo,  whose  mind  was  now  too  thor- 
oughly preoccupied  by  the  idea  of  the  future  book  to 
attend  to  Tito's  further  narration.  "Do  you  think  of 
writing  in  Latin  or  Greek  ?  Doubtless  Greek  is  the  more 
ready  clothing  for  your  thoughts,  and  it  is  the  nobler 
language.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Latin  is  the  tongue  in 
which  we  shall  measure  ourselves  with  the  larger  and 
more  famous  numl>er  of  modern  rivals.  And  if  you  are 
less  at  ease  in  it,  I  will  aid  you  —  yes,  I  will  spend  on 
you  that  long-accumulated  study  which  was  to  have  been 
thrown  into  the  channel  of  another  work  —  a  work  in 
which  I  myself  was  to  have  had  a  helpmate." 

Bardo  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  — 

"  But  who  knows  whether  that  work  may  not  be  exe- 
cuted yet  ?  For  you,  too,  young  man,  have  been  brought 
up  by  a  father  who  poured  into  your  mind  all  the  long- 
gathered  stream  of  his  knowledge  and  experience.  Our 
aid  might  be  mutual." 

Romola,  who  had  watched  her  father's  growing 
[   99   ] 


ROMOLA 

excitement,  and  divined  well  the  invisible  currents 
of  feeling  that  determined  every  question  and  remark, 
felt  herself  in  a  glow  of  strange  anxiety:  she  turned 
her  eyes  on  Tito  continually,  to  watch  the  impression 
her  father's  words  made  on  him,  afraid  lest  he  should 
be  inclined  to  dispel  these  visions  of  co-operation 
which  were  lighting  up  her  father's  face  with  a  new 
hope.  But  no!  He  looked  so  bright  and  gentle:  he 
must  feel,  as  she  did,  that  in  this  eagerness  of  blind 
age  there  was  piteousness  enough  to  call  forth  inex- 
haustible patience.  How  much  more  strongly  he  would 
feel  this  if  he  knew  about  her  brother !  A  girl  of  eight- 
een imagines  the  feelings  behind  the  face  that  has  moved 
her  with  its  sympathetic  youth,  as  easily  as  primitive 
people  imagined  the  humours  of  the  gods  in  fair  weather: 
what  is  she  to  believe  in,  if  not  in  this  vision  woven  from 
.within  ? 

And  Tito  was  really  very  far  from  feeling  impatient. 
He  delighted  in  sitting  there  with  the  sense  that  Rom- 
ola's  attention  was  fixed  on  him,  and  that  he  could 
occasionally  look  at  her.  He  was  pleased  that  Bardo 
should  take  an  interest  in  him;  and  he  did  not  dwell 
with  enough  seriousness  on  the  prospect  of  the  work 
in  which  he  was  to  be  aided,  to  feel  moved  by  it  to 
anything  else  than  that  easy,  good-humoured  acqui- 
escence which  was  natural  to  him. 

"I  shall  be  proud  and  happy,"  he  said,  in  answer 
to  Bardo's  last  words,  "if  my  services  can  be  held  a 
meet  offering  to  the  matured  scholarship  of  Messere. 
But  doubtless  "  —  here  he  looked  towards  Romola  — • 
"the  lovely  damigella,  your  daughter,  makes  all  other 
[    100   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

aid  superfluous;  for  I  have  learned  from  Nello  that 
she  has  been  nourished  on  the  highest  studies  from  her 
earliest  years." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Romola;  "I  am  by  no 
means  sufficient  to  my  father:  I  have  not  the  gifts  that 
are  necessary  for  scholarship." 

Romola  did  not  make  this  self-depreciatory  state- 
ment in  a  tone  of  anxious  humility,  but  with  a  proud 
gravity. 

"Nay,  my  Romola,"  said  her  father,  not  willing 
that  the  stranger  should  have  too  low  a  conception 
of  his  daughter's  powers;  "thou  art  not  destitute  of 
gifts;  rather,  thou  art  endowed  beyond  the  measure 
of  women;  but  thou  hast  withal  the  woman's  delicate 
frame,  which  ever  craves  repose  and  variety,  and  so 
begets  a  wandering  imagination.  My  daughter"  — 
turning  to  Tito  — "  has  been  very  precious  to  me, 
filling  up  to  the  best  of  her  power  the  place  of  a  son. 
For  I  had  once  a  son  .  .  ." 

Bardo  checked  himself:  he  did  not  wish  to  assume 
an  attitude  of  complaint  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
and  he  remembered  that  this  young  man,  in  whom 
he  had  unexpectedly  become  so  much  interested,  was 
still  a  stranger,  towards  whom  it  became  him  rathei' 
to  keep  the  position  of  a  patron.  His  pride  was  roused 
to  double  activity  by  the  fear  that  he  had  forgotten  his 
dignity. 

"But,"  he  resumed,  in  his  original  tone  of  conde- 
scension, "we  are  departing  from  what  I  believe  is  to 
you  the  most  important  business.  NcUo  informed  me 
that  you  had  certain  gems  which  you  would  fain  dis- 
[    101    ] 


ROMOLA 

pose  of,  and  that  you  desired  a  passport  to  some  man 
of  wealth  and  taste  who  would  be  likely  to  become  a 
purchaser." 

"It  is  true;  for,  though  I  have  obtained  employ- 
ment, as  a  corrector  with  the  Cenniui,  my  payment 
leaves  little  margin  beyond  the  provision  of  necessa- 
ries, and  would  leave  less  but  that  my  good  friend 
Nello  insists  on  my  hiring  a  lodging  from  him,  and 
saying  nothing  about  the  rent  till  better  days." 

"Nello  is  a  good-hearted  prodigal,"  said  Bardo; 
"and  though,  with  that  ready  ear  and  ready  tongue 
of  his,  he  is  too  much  like  the  ill-famed  Margites  — 
knowing  many  things  and  knowing  them  all  badly, 
as  I  hinted  to  him  but  now  —  he  is  nevertheless  '  ab- 
normis  sapiens,'  after  the  manner  of  our  born  Floren- 
tines. But  have  you  the  gems  with  you  ?  I  would 
willingly  know  what  they  are  —  yet  it  is  useless :  no, 
it  might  only  deepen  regret.  I  cannot  add  to  my  store." 

"I  have  one  or  two  intaglios  of  much  beauty,"  said 
Tito,  proceeding  to  draw  from  his  wallet  a  small  case. 

But  Romola  no  sooner  saw  the  movement  than  she 
looked  at  him  with  significant  gravity,  and  placed  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  — 

"Con  viso  che  tacendo  dicea,  Taci." 

If  Bardo  were  made  aware  that  the  gems  were  within 
reach,  she  knew  well  he  would  want  a  minute  descrip- 
tion of  them,  and  it  would  become  pain  to  him  that 
they  should  go  away  from  him,  even  if  he  did  not 
insist  on  some  device  for  purchasing  them  in  spite  of 
poverty.  But  she  had  no  sooner  made  this  sign  than 
[    102   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

she  felt  rather  guilty  and  ashamed  at  having  virtually 
confessed  a  weakness  of  her  father's  to  a  stranger.  It 
seemed  that  she  was  destined  to  a  sudden  confidence 
and  familiarity  with  this  young  Greek,  strangely  at 
variance  with  her  deep-seated  pride  and  reserve;  and 
this  consciousness  again  brought  the  unwonted  colour 
to  her  cheeks. 

Tito  understood  her  look  and  sign,  and  immediately 
■withdrew  his  hand  from  the  case,  saying,  in  a  careless 
tone,  so  as  to  make  it  appear  that  he  was  merely 
following  up  his  last  words,  "But  they  are  usually 
in  the  keeping  of  Messer  Domenico  Cennini,  who 
has  strong  and  safe  places  for  these  things.  He 
estimates  them  as  worth  at  least  five  hundred  ducats." 

"Ah,  then,  they  are  fine  intagli,"  said  Bardo.  "Five 
hundred  ducats!  Ah,  more  than  a  man's  ransom!" 

Tito  jgave  a  slight,  almost  imperceptible  start,  and 
opened  his  long  dark  eyes  with  questioning  surprise 
at  Bardo's  blind  face,  as  if  his  words  —  a  mere  phrase 
of  common  parlance,  at  a  time  when  men  were  often 
being  ransomed  from  slavery  or  imprisonment  —  had 
had  some  special  meaning  for  him.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment he  looked  towards  Romola,  as  if  her  eyes  must 
be  her  father's  interpreters.  She,  intensely  preoccupied 
with  what  related  to  her  father,  imagined  that  Tito 
was  looking  to  her  again  for  some  guidance,  and  im- 
mediately spoke. 

"Alessandra    Scala    delights    in    gems,    you    know, 

father;  she  calls  them  her  winter  flowers;  and  the  Se- 

gretario  would  be  almost  sure  to  buy  any  gems  that 

she  wished  for.  Besides,  he  himself  sets  great  store  by 

[    103   ] 


ROMOLA 

rings  and  sigils,  which  he  wears  as  a  defence  against 
pains  in  the  joints." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Bardo.  "Bartolommeo  has  over- 
much confidence  in  the  eflBcacy  of  gems  —  a  confidence 
wider  than  what  is  sanctioned  by  Pliny,  who  clearly 
shows  that  he  regards  many  beliefs  of  that  sort  as 
idle  superstitions;  though  not  to  the  utter  denial  of 
medicinal  virtues  in  gems.  Wherefore,  I  myself,  as 
you  observe,  young  man,  wear  certain  rings,  which 
the  discreet  Camillo  Leonardi  prescribed  to  me  by 
letter  when  two  years  ago  I  had  a  certain  infirmity 
of  sudden  numbness.  But  thou  hast  spoken  well, 
Romola.  I  will  dictate  a  letter  to  Bartolommeo,  which 
Maso  shall  carry.  But  it  were  well  that  Messere  should 
notify  to  thee  what  the  gems  are,  together  with  the 
intagli  they  bear,  as  a  warrant  to  Bartolommeo  that 
they  will  be  worthy  of  his  attention." 

"Nay,  father,"  said  Romola,  whose  dread  lest  a 
paroxysm  of  the  collector's  mania  should  seize  her 
father  gave  her  the  courage  to  resist  his  proposal. 
"  Your  word  will  be  sufficient  tliat  Messere  is  a  scholar 
and  has  travelled  much.  The  Segretario  will  need  no 
further  inducement  to  receive  him." 

"True,  child,"  said  Bardo,  touched  on  a  chord  that 
was  sure  to  respond.  "I  have  no  need  to  add  proofs 
and  arguments  in  confirmation  of  my  word  to  Bar- 
tolommeo. And  I  doubt  not  that  this  young  man's 
presence  is  in  accord  with  the  tones  of  his  voice,  so 
that,  the  door  being  once  opened,  he  will  be  his  own 
best  advocate." 

Bardo  paused  a  few  moments,  but  his  silence  was 
[    104   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

evidently  charged  with  some  idea  that  he  was  hesi- 
tating to  express,  for  he  once  leaned  forward  a  little 
as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  then  turned  his  head  aside 
towards  Romola  and  sank  backward  again.  At  last, 
as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  he  said  in  a  tone  which 
might  have  become  a  prince  giving  the  courteous 
signal  of  dismissal,  — 

"I  am  somewhat  fatigued  this  morning,  and  shall 
prefer  seeing  you  again  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  be 
able  to  give  you  the  Secretary's  answer,  authorizing 
you  to  present  yourself  to  him  at  some  given  time. 
But  before  you  go "  —  here  the  old  man,  in  spite  of 
himself,  fell  into  a  more  faltering  tone  — "  you  will 
perhaps  permit  me  to  touch  your  hand  ?  It  is  long 
since  I  touched  the  hand  of  a  young  man." 

Bardo  had  stretched  out  his  aged  white  hand,  and 
Tito  immediately  placed  his  dark  but  delicate  and 
supple  fingers  within  it.  Bardo's  cramped  fingers 
closed  over  them,  and  he  held  them  for  a  few  minutes 
in  silence.  Then  he  said,  — 

"  Romola,  has  this  young  man  the  same  complexion 
as  thy  brother  —  fair  and  pale  ?  " 

"No,  father,"  Romola  answered,  with  determined 
composure,  though  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently 
with  mingled  emotions.  "The  hair  of  Messere  is  dark 
—  his  complexion  is  dark."  Inwardly  she  said,  "  Will 
he  mind  it  ?  will  it  be  disagreeable  ?  No,  he  looks  so 
gentle  and  good-natured."  Then  aloud  again,  — 

"Would  Messere  permit  my  father  to  touch  his 
hair  and  face  ?  " 

Her  eyes  inevitably  made  a  timid  entreating  ap- 
[    105   ] 


ROMOLA 

peal  while  she  asked  this,  and  Tito's  met  them  with 
soft  brightness  as  he  said,  "Assuredly,"  and,  leaning 
forward,  raised  Bardo's  hand  to  his  curls,  with  a 
readiness  of  assent,  which  was  the  greater  relief  to  her, 
because  it  was  unaccompanied  by  any  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

Bardo  passed  his  hand  again  and  again  over  the 
long  curls  and  grasped  them  a  little,  as  if  their  spiral 
resistance  made  his  inward  vision  clearer;  then  he 
passed  his  hand  over  the  brow  and  cheek,  tracing  the 
profile  with  the  edge  of  his  palm  and  fourth  finger,  and 
letting  the  breadth  of  his  hand  repose  on  the  rich  oval 
of  the  cheek. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  as  his  hand  glided  from  the  face  and 
rested  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "He  must  be 
very  unlike  thy  brother,  Romola:  and  it  is  the  better. 
You  see  no  visions,  I  trust,  my  young  friend  ? " 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  there  entered, 
unannounced,  a  tall  elderly  man  in  a  handsome  black 
silk  lucco,  who,  unwinding  his  becchetto  from  his  neck 
and  taking  off  his  cap,  disclosed  a  head  as  white  as 
Bardo's.  He  cast  a  keen  glance  of  surprise  at  the  group 
before  him  —  the  young  stranger  leaning  in  that  filial 
attitude,  while  Bardo's  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder, 
and  Romola  sitting  near  with  eyes  dilated  by  anxiety 
and  agitation.  But  there  was  an  instantaneous  change: 
Bardo  let  fall  his  hand,  Tito  raised  himself  from  his 
stooping  posture,  and  Romola  rose  to  meet  the  visitor 
with  an  alacrity  which  implied  all  the  greater  intimacy, 
because  it  was  unaccompanied  by  any  smile. 

"Well,  god-daughter,"  said  the  stately  man,  as  he 
[    106  ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

touched  Romola's  shoulder;  "Maso  said  you  had  a 
visitor,  but  I  came  in  nevertheless." 

"It  is  thou,  Bernardo,"  said  Bardo.  "Thou  ari 
come  at  a  fortunate  moment.  This,  young  man,"  he 
continued,  while  Tito  rose  and  bowed,  "is  one  of  the 
chief  citizens  of  Florence,  Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero, 
my  oldest,  I  had  almost  said  my  only  friend  —  whose 
good  opinion,  if  you  can  win  it,  may  carry  you  far. 
He  is  but  three-and-twenty,  Bernardo,  yet  he  can 
doubtless  tell  thee  much  which  thou  wilt  care  to  hear; 
for  though  a  scholar,  he  has  already  travelled  far,  and 
looked  on  other  things  besides  the  manuscripts  for 
which  thou  hast  too  light  an  esteem." 

"Ah,  a  Greek,  as  I  augur,"  said  Bernardo,  returning 
Tito's  reverence  but  slightly,  and  surveying  him  with 
that  sort  of  glance  which  seems  almost  to  cut  like 
fine  steel.  "Newly  arrived  in  Florence,  it  appears. 
The  name  of  Messere  —  or  part  of  it,  for  it  is  doubtless 
a  long  one  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Tito,  with  perfect  good- 
humour,  "  it  is  most  modestly  free  from  polysyllabic 
pomp.   My  name  is  Tito  Melema." 

"Truly?"  said  Bernardo,  rather  scornfully,  as  he 
took  a  seat ;  "  I  had  expected  it  to  be  at  least  as  long  as 
the  names  of  a  citV  a  river,  a  province,  and  an  empire 
all  put  together  JT  We  Florentines  mostly  use  names 
as  we  do  prawns,  and  strip  them  of  all  flourishes  be- 
fore we  trust  them  to  our  throats." 

"  Well,  Bardo,"  he  continued,  as  if  the  stranger  were 
not  worth  further  notice,  and  changing  his  tone  of  sarcas- 
tic suspicion  for  one  of  sadness,  "  we  have  buried  him." 
[    107   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Ah!"  replied  Bardo,  with  corresponding  sadness, 
"and  a  new  epoch  has  come  for  Florence  —  a  dark 
one,  I  fear.  Lorenzo  has  left  behind  him  an  inheritance 
that  is  but  like  the  alchemist's  laboratory  when  the 
wisdom  of  the  alchemist  is  gone." 

"Not  altogether  so,"  said  Bernardo.  "Piero  de' 
Medici  has  abundant  intelligence;  his  faults  are  only 
the  faults  of  hot  blood.  I  love  the  lad  —  lad  he  will 
always  be  to  me,  as  I  have  always  been  'little  father* 
to  him." 

"Yet  all  who  want  a  new  order  of  things  are  likely 
to  conceive  new  hopes,"  said  Bardo.  "We  shall  have 
the  old  strife  of  parties,  I  fear." 

^'If  we  could  have  a  new  order  of  things  that  was 
something  else  than  knocking  down  one  coat  of  arms 
to  put  up  another,"  said  Bernardo,  "  I  should  be  ready 
to  say,  'I  belong  to  no  party:  I  am  a  Florentine.'  But 
as  long  as  parties  are  in  question,  I  am  a  Medicean, 
and  will  be  a  Medicean  till  I  die.  I  am  of  the  same 
mind  as  Farinata  degli  Uberti :  if  any  man  asks  me 
what  is  meant  by  siding  with  a  party,  I  say,  as  he  did, 
*To  wish  ill  or  well,  for  the  sake  of  past  wrongs  or 
kindnesses.' " 

During  this  short  dialogue,  Tito  had  been  standing, 
and  now  took  his  leave. 

"But  come  again  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow," 
said  Bardo,  graciously,  before  Tito  left  the  room,  "  that 
I  may  give  you  Bartolommeo's  answer." 

"  From  what  quarter  of  the  sky  has  this  pretty  Greek 
youngster  alighted  so  close  to  thy  chair,  Bardo  ?  "  said 
Bernardo  del  Nero,  as  the  door  closed.  He  spoke  with 
[   108   ] 


DAWNING  HOPES 

dry  emphasis,  evidently  intended  to  convey  something 
more  to  Bardo  than  was  implied  by  the  mere  words. 

"He  is  a  scholar  who  has  been  shipwrecked  and 
has  saved  a  few  gems,  for  which  he  wants  to  find  a 
purchaser.  I  am  going  to  send  him  to  Bartolommeo 
Scala,  for  thou  knowest  it  were  more  prudent  in  me 
to  abstain  from  further  purchases." 

Bernardo  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  "Rom- 
ola,  wilt  thou  see  if  my  servant  is  without?  I  ordered 
him  to  wait  for  me  here."  Then,  when  Roraola  was 
at  a  sufficient  distance,  he  leaned  forward  and  said  to 
Bardo  in  a  low,  emphatic  tone  — 

"Remember,  Bardo,  thou  hast  a  rare  gem  of  thy 
own;  take  care  no  one  gets  it  who  is  not  likely  to  pay 
a  worthy  price.  That  pretty  Greek  has  a  lithe  sleekness 
about  him  that  seems  marvellously  fitted  for  slipping 
easily  into  any  nest  he  fixes  his  mind  on." 

Bardo  was  startled:  the  association  of  Tito  with  the 
image  of  his  lost  son  had  excluded  instead  of  suggest- 
ing the  thought  of  Romola.  But  almost  immediately 
there  seemed  to  be  a  reaction  which  made  him  grasp 
the  warning  as  if  it  had  been  a  hope. 

"  But  why  not,  Bernardo  ?  If  the  young  man  approved 
himself  worthy  —  he  is  a  scholar  —  and  —  and  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  about  the  dowry,  which  always 
makes  thee  gloomy." 


CHAPTER  Vn 
A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 

BARTOLOMMEO  ScALA,  Secretary  of  the  Florentine 
Republic,  on  whom  Tito  Melema  had  been  thus 
led  to  anchor  his  hopes,  lived  in  a  handsome  palace  close 
to  the  Porta  Pinti,  now  known  as  the  Casa  Gherar- 
desca.  His  arms  —  an  azure  ladder  transverse  on  a 
golden  field,  with  the  motto  Gradatim  placed  over  the 
entrance  —  told  all  comers  that  the  miller's  son  held 
his  ascent  to  honours  by  his  own  efforts  a  fact  to  be 
proclaimed  without  wincing.  The  Secretary  was  a  vain 
and  pompous  man,  but  he  was  also  an  honest  one:  he 
was  sincerely  convinced  of  his  own  merit,  and  could  see 
no  reason  for  feigning.  The  topmost  round  of  his  azure 
ladder  had  been  reached  by  this  time:  he  had  held 
his  secretarj'ship  these  twenty  years  —  had  long  since 
made  his  orations  on  the  ringhiera,  or  platform  of  the 
Old  Palace,  as  the  custom  was,  in  the  presence  of 
princely  visitors,  while  Marzocco,  the  republican  lion, 
wore  his  gold  crown  on  the  occasion,  and  all  the  people 
cried,  "Viva  Messer  Bartolommeo ! "  —  had  been  on 
an  embassy  to  Rome,  and  had  there  been  made  titular 
Senator,  Apostolical  Secretary,  Knight  of  the  Golden 
Spur;  and  had,  eight  years  ago,  been  Gonfaloniere  — 
last  goal  of  the  Florentine  citizen's  ambition.  Mean- 
time he  had  got  richer  and  richer,  and  more  and  more 
gouty,  after  the  manner  of  successful  mortality;  and 
[    110   ] 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 

the  Knight  of  the  Golden  Spur  had  often  to  sit  with 
helpless  cushioned  heel  under  the  handsome  loggia 
he  had  built  for  himself,  overlooking  the  spacious 
gardens  and  lawn  at  the  back  of  his  palace. 

He  was  in  this  position  on  the  day  when  he  had 
granted  the  desired  interview  to  Tito  Melema.  The 
May  afternoon  sun  was  on  the  flowers  and  the  grass 
beyond  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  loggia;  the  too  stately 
silk  lucco  was  cast  aside,  and  the  light  loose  mantle 
was  thrown  over  his  tunic;  his  beautiful  daughter 
Alessandra  and  her  husband,  the  Greek  soldier-poet, 
Marullo,  were  seated  on  one  side  of  him :  on  the  other, 
two  friends  not  oppressively  illustrious,  and  therefore 
the  better  listeners.  Yet,  to  say  nothing  of  the  gout, 
Messer  Bartolommeo's  felicity  was  far  from  perfect:  it 
was  embittered  by  the  contents  of  certain  papers  that 
lay  before  him,  consisting  chiefly  of  a  correspondence 
between  himself  and  Politian.  It  was  a  human  foible 
at  that  period  (incredible  as  it  may  seem)  to  recite  quar- 
rels, and  favour  scholarly  visitors  with  the  communica- 
tion of  an  entire  and  lengthy  correspondence;  and  this 
was  neither  the  first  nor  the  second  time  that  Scala  had 
asked  the  candid  opinion  of  his  friends  as  to  the  bal- 
ance of  right  and  wrong  in  some  half-score  Latin  letters 
between  himself  and  Politian,  all  springing  out  of  cer- 
tain epigrams  written  in  the  most  playful  tone  in  the 
world.  It  was  the  story  of  a  very  typical  and  pretty 
quarrel,  in  which  we  are  interested,  because  it  sup- 
plied precisely  that  thistle  of  hatred  necessary,  accord- 
ing to  Nello,  as  a  stimulus  to  the  sluggish  paces  of  the 
cautious  steed,  Friendship. 

[   111   ] 


/ 


ROMOLA 

Politian,  having  been  a  rejected  pretender  to  the  love 
and  the  hand  of  Scala's  daughter,  kept  a  very  sharp  and 
learned  tooth  in  readiness  against  the  too  pros[)erous 
and  presumptuous  Secretary,  who  had  decHned  the 
greatest  scholar  of  the  age  for  a  son-in-law.  Scala  was 
a  meritorious  public  servant,  and,  moreover,  a  lucky 
man  —  naturally  exasperating  to  an  offended  scholar; 
but  then  —  O  beautiful  balance  of  things!  —  he  had 
an  itch  for  authorship,  and  was  a  bad  writer  —  one  of 
those  excellent  people  who,  sitting  in  gouty  slippers, 
"  penned  poetical  trifles  "  entirely  for  their  own  amuse- 
ment, without  any  view  to  an  audience,  and,  conse- 
quently, sent  them  to  their  friends  in  letters,  which  were 
the  literary  periodicals  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Now 
Scala  had  abundance  of  friends  who  were  ready  to 
praise  his  writings:  friends  hke  Ficino  and  Landino  — 
amiable  browsers  in  the  Medicean  park  along  with 
himself  —  who  found  his  Latin  prose  style  elegant  and 
masculine;  and  the  terrible  Joseph  Scaliger,  who  was  to 
pronounce  him  totally  ignorant  of  Latinity,  was  at  a 
comfortable  distance  in  the  next  century.  But  when  was 
the  fatal  coquetry  inherent  in  superfluous  authorship 
ever  quite  contented  with  the  ready  praise  of  friends  ? 
That  critical  supercilious  Politian  —  a  fellow  browser 
who  was  far  from  amiable  —  must  be  made  aware  that 
the  solid  Secretary  showed,  in  his  leisure  hours,  a  pleas- 
ant fertility  in  verses,  which  indicated  pretty  clearly  how 
much  he  might  do  in  that  way  if  he  were  not  a  man  of 
aflPairs. 

Ineffable  moment!  when  the  man  you  secretly  hate 
seads  you  a  Latin  epigram  with  a  false  gender  —  hen- 
[    112   ] 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 

decasyllabics  with  a  questionable  elision,  at  least  a  toe 
too  much  —  attempts  at  poetic  figures  which  are  mani- 
fest solecisms.  That  moment  had  come  to  Politian :  the 
Secretary  had  put  forth  his  soft  head  from  the  official 
shell,  and  the  terrible  lurking  crab  was  down  upon  him. 
Politian  had  used  the  freedom  of  a  friend,  and  pleasantly, 
in  the  form  of  a  Latin  epigram,  corrected  the  mistake 
of  Scala  in  making  the  culex  (an  insect  too  well  known 
on  the  banks  of  the  Arno)  of  the  inferior  or  feminine 
gender.  Scala  replied  by  a  bad  joke,  in  suitable  Latin 
verses,  referring  to  Politian's  unsuccessful  suit.  Better 
and  better.  Politian  found  the  verses  very  pretty  and 
highly  facetious:  the  more  was  the  pity  that  they  were 
seriously  incorrect,  and  inasmuch  as  Scala  had  alleged 
that  he  had  written  them  in  imitation  of  a  Greek  epi- 
gram, Politian,  being  on  such  friendly  terms,  would  en- 
close a  Greek  epigram  of  his  own,  on  the  same  interest- 
ing insect  —  not,  we  may  presume,  out  of  any  wish  to 
humble  Scala,  but  rather  to  instruct  him;  said  epigram 
containing  a  lively  conceit  about  Venus,  Cupid,  and  the 
culcx,  of  a  kind  much  tasted  at  that  period,  founded 
partly  on  the  zoological  fact  that  the  gnat,  like  Venus, 
was  bom  from  the  waters.  Scala,  in  reply,  begged  to 
say  that  his  verses  were  never  intended  for  a  scholar 
with  such  delicate  olfactories  as  Politian,  nearest  of  all 
living  men  to  the  perfection  of  the  ancients,  and  of  a 
taste  so  fastidious  that  sturgeon  itself  must  seem  insipid 
to  him;  defended  his  own  verses,  nevertheless,  though 
indeed  they  were  written  hastily,  without  correction,  and 
intended  as  an  agreeable  distraction  durinfj  the  summer 
heat  to  himself  and  such  friends  as  were  satisfied  with 

[    113   ] 


ROMOLA 

mediocrity,  he,  Scala,  not  being  like  some  other  people, 
who  courted  publicity  through  the  booksellers.  For  the 
rest,  he  had  barely  enough  Greek  to  make  out  the  sense 
of  the  epigram  so  graciously  sent  him,  to  say  nothing  of 
tasting  its  elegances;  but  —  the  epigram  was  Politian's: 
what  more  need  be  said  ?  Still,  by  the  way  of  postscript, 
he  feared  that  his  incomparable  friend's  comparison  of 
the  gnat  to  Venus,  on  account  of  its  origin  from  the 
waters,  was  in  many  ways  ticklish.  On  the  one  hand, 
Venus  might  be  offended;  and  on  the  other,  unless  the 
poet  intended  an  allusion  to  the  doctrine  of  Thales,  that 
cold  and  damp  origin  seemed  doubtful  to  Scala  in  the 
case  of  a  creature  so  fond  of  warmth;  a  fish  were  perhaps 
the  better  comparison,  or,  when  the  power  of  flying  was 
in  question,  an  eagle,  or  indeed,  when  the  darkness  was 
taken  into  consideration,  a  bat  or  an  owl  were  a  less 
obscure  and  more  apposite  parallel,  etc.,  etc.  Here  was 
a  great  opportunity  for  Politian.  He  was  not  aware,  he 
wrote,  that  when  he  had  Scala's  verses  placed  before 
him,  there  was  any  question  of  sturgeon,  but  rather  of 
frogs  and  gudgeons:  made  short  work  with  Scala's 
defence  of  his  own  Latin,  and  mangled  him  terribly  on 
the  score  of  the  stupid  criticisms  he  had  ventured  on  the 
Greek  epigram  kindly  forwarded  to  him  as  a  model. 
Wretched  cavils,  indeed !  for  as  to  the  damp  origin  of  the 
gnat,  there  was  the  authority  of  Virgil  himself,  who  had 
called  it  the  "alumnus  of  the  waters";  and  as  to  what 
his  dear  dull  friend  had  to  say  about  the  fish,  the  eagle 
and  the  rest,  it  was  "nihil  ad  rem";  for  because  the 
eagle  could  fly  higher,  it  by  no  means  followed  that 
the  gnat  could  not  fly  at  all,  etc.,  etc.  He  was  ashamed, 
[    114   ] 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 

however,  to  dwell  on  such  trivialities,  and  thus  to  swell 
a  gnat  into  an  elephant;  but,  for  his  own  part,  would 
only  add  that  he  had  nothing  deceitful  or  double  about 
him,  neither  was  he  to  be  caught  when  present  by  the 
false  blandishments  of  those  who  slandered  him  in  his 
absence,  agreeing  rather  with  a  Homeric  sentiment  on 
that  head  —  which  furnished  a  Greek  quotation  to  serve 
as  powder  to  his  bullet. 

The  quarrel  could  not  end  there.  The  logic  could 
hardly  get  worse,  but  the  Secretary  got  more  pompously 
self -asserting,  and  the  scholarly  poet's  temper  more  and 
more  venomous.  Politian  had  been  generously  willing 
to  hold  up  a  mirror,  by  which  the  too-inflated  Secretary, 
beholding  his  own  likeness,  might  be  induced  to  cease 
setting  up  his  ignorant  defences  of  bad  Latin  against 
ancient  authorities  whom  the  consent  of  centuries  had 
placed  beyond  question,  —  unless,  indeed,  he  had  de- 
signed to  sink  in  literature  in  proportion  as  he  rose  in 
honours,  that  by  a  sort  of  compensation  men  of  letters 
might  feel  themselves  his  equals.  In  return,  Politian 
was  begged  to  examine  Scala's  writings:  nowhere  would 
he  find  a  more  devout  admiration  of  antiquity.  The 
Secretary  was  ashamed  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and 
blushed  for  it.  Some,  indeed,  there  were  who  wanted  to 
have  their  own  works  praised  and  exalted  to  a  level  with 
the  divine  monuments  of  antiquity;  but  he,  Scala,  could 
not  oblige  them.  And  as  to  the  honours  which  were 
offensive  to  the  envious,  they  had  been  well  earned :  wit- 
ness his  whole  life  since  he  came  in  penury  to  Florence. 
The  elegant  scholar,  in  reply,  was  not  suq^rised  that 
Scala  found  the  Age  distasteful  to  him,  since  he  himself 

[    115    ] 


ROMOLA 

was  so  distasteful  to  the  Age;  nay,  it  was  with  perfect 
accuracy  that  he,  the  elegant  scholar,  had  called  Scala 
a  branny  monster,  inasmuch  as  he  was  formed  from 
the  offscourings  of  monsters,  bom  amidst  the  refuse 
of  a  mill,  and  eminently  worthy  the  long-eared  office  of 
turning  the  paternal  millstones  (in  pistrini  sordihus 
natus  et  quidem  pistrino  dignissimus) ! 

It  was  not  without  reference  to  Tito's  appointed  visit 
that  the  papers  containing  this  correspondence  were 
brought  out  to-day.  Here  was  a  new  Greek  scholar 
whose  accomplishments  were  to  be  tested,  and  on  no- 
thing did  Scala  more  desire  a  dispassionate  opinion 
from  persons  of  superior  knowledge  than  on  that  Greek 
epigram  of  Politian's.  After  sufficient  introductory  talk 
concerning  Tito's  travels,  after  a  survey  and  discussion 
of  the  gems,  and  an  easy  passage  from  the  mention  of 
the  lamented  Lorenzo's  eagerness  in  collecting  such 
specimens  of  ancient  art  to  the  subject  of  classical  tastes 
and  studies  in  general  and  their  present  condition  in 
Florence,  it  was  inevitable  to  mention  Politian,  a  man 
of  eminent  ability  indeed,  but  a  little  too  arrogant  — 
assuming  to  be  a  Hercules,  whose  office  it  was  to  destroy 
all  the  literarv  monstrosities  of  the  age,  and  writing  let- 
ters  to  his  elders  without  signing  them,  as  if  they  were 
miraculous  revelations  that  could  only  have  one  source. 
And  after  all,  were  not  his  own  criticisms  often  question- 
able and  his  tastes  perverse?  JJe  was  fond  of  saying 

pungent  things  about  the  men  who  thouglit  tlioy  wrote 
like  Cicero  because  they  ended  every  sentence  ^jth 
"essevldctur" :  but  while  he  was  boasting  of  his  freedom 
from  servile  imitation,  did  he  not  fall  into  the  other 
[    116    ] 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE 

extreme,  running  after  strange  words  and  affected 
phrases?  Even  in  his  much-belauded  "Miscellanea" 
was  every  point  tenable  ?  And  Tito,  who  had  just  been 
looking  into  the  "  Miscellanea,"  found  so  much  to  say 
that  was  agreeable  to  the  Secretary  —  he  would  have 
done  so  from  the  mere  disposition  to  please,  without 
further  motive  —  that  he  showed  himself  quite  worthy 
to  be  made  a  judge  in  the  notable  correspondence  con- 
cerning the  culex.  Here  was  the  Greek  epigram  which 
Politian  had  doubtless  thought  the  finest  in  the  world, 
though  he  had  pretended  to  believe  that  the  "trans- 
marini,"  the  Greeks  themselves,  would  make  light  of  it: 
had  he  not  been  unintentionally  speaking  the  truth  in 
his  false  modesty? 

Tito  was  ready,  and  scarified  the  epigram  to  Scala's 
content.  O  wise  young  judge!  He  could  doubtless  ap- 
preciate satire  even  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  Scala  — 
who,  excellent  man,  not  seeking  publicity  through  the 
booksellers,  was  never  unprovided  with  "hasty  uncor- 
rected trifles,"  as  a  sort  of  sherbet  for  a  visitor  on  a  hot 
day,  or,  if  the  weather  were  cold,  why  then  as  a  cordial 
—  had  a  few  little  matters  in  the  shape  of  Sonnets, 
turning  on  well-known  foibles  of  Politian's,  which  he 
would  not  like  to  go  any  farther,  but  which  would,  per- 
haps, amuse  the  company. 

Enough :  Tito  took  his  leave  under  an  urgent  invita- 
tion to  come  again.  His  gems  were  interesting;  espe- 
cially the  agate,  with  the  lusus  naturae  in  it  —  a  most 
wonderful  semblance  of  Cupid  riding  on  the  lion;  and 
the  "  Jew's  stone,"  with  the  lion-headed  serpent  en- 
chased in  it;  both  of  which  the  vSecretary  agreed  to  buy 

[    117   J 


ROMOLA 

—  the  latter  as  a  reinforcement  of  his  preventives  against 
the  gout,  which  gave  him  such  severe  twinges  that  it  was 
plain  enough  how  intolerable  it  would  be  if  he  were  not 
well  supplied  with  rings  of  rare  virtue,  and  with  an 
amulet  worn  close  under  the  right  breast.  But  Tito  was 
assured  that  he  himself  was  more  interesting  than  his 
gems.  He  had  won  his  way  to  the  Scala  Palace  by  the 
recommendation  of  Bardo  de'  Bardi,  who,  to  be  sure, 
was  Scala's  old  acquaintance  and  a  worthy  scholar,  in 
spite  of  his  overvaluing  himself  a  little  (a  frequent  foible 
in  the  Secretary's  friends) ;  but  he  must  come  again  on 
the  ground  of  his  own  manifest  accomplishments. 

The  interview  could  hardly  have  ended  more  auspi- 
ciously for  Tito,  and  as  he  walked  out  at  the  Porta  Pinti 
that  he  might  laugh  a  little  at  his  ease  over  the  affair  of 
the  culex,  he  felt  that  Fortune  could  hardly  mean  to  turn 
her  back  on  him  again  at  present,  since  she  had  taken 
him  by  the  hand  in  this  decided  way. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

IT  is  easy  to  Northern  people  to  rise  early  on  Midsum- 
mer morning,  to  see  the  dew  on  the  grassy  edge  of 
the  dusty  pathway,  to  notice  the  fresh  shoots  among  the 
darker  green  of  the  oak  and  fir  in  the  coppice,  and  to 
look  over  the  gate  at  the  shorn  meadow,  without  recol- 
lecting that  it  is  the  Nativity  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist. 

Not  so  to  the  Florentine  —  still  less  to  the  Florentine 
of  the  fifteenth  century :  to  him  on  that  particular  morn- 
ing the  brightness  of  the  eastern  sun  on  the  Arno  had 
something  special  in  it;  the  ringing  of  the  bells  was  artic- 
ulate, and  declared  it  to  be  the  great  summer  festival  of 
Florence,  the  day  of  San  Giovanni. 

San  Giovanni,  had  been  the  patron  saint  of  Florence 
for  at  least  «ight  hundred  years  —  ever  since  the  time  v 
when  the  Lombard  Queen  Theodolinda  had  com- 
manded her  subjects  to  do  him  peculiar  honor;  nay, 
says  old  Villani,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge,  ever 
since  the  days  of  Constantine  the  Great  and  Pope 
Sylvester,  when  the  Florentines  deposed  their  idol 
Mars,  whom  they  were  nevertheless  careful  not  to 
treat  with  contumely;  for  while  they  consecrated  their 
beautiful  and  noble  temple  to  the  honour  of  God  and 
of  the  "  Beato  Messere  Santo  Giovanni,"  they  placed 
old  Mars  respectfully  on  a  high  tower  near  the  River 
Arno,  finding  in  certain  ancient  memorials  that  he  had 

[    119   ] 


ROMOLA 

been  elected  as  their  tutelar  deity  under  such  astral 
influences  that  if  he  were  broken,  or  otherwise  treated 
with  indignity,  the  city  would  suffer  great  damage 
and  mutation.  But  in  the  fifteenth  century  that  discreet 
regard  to  the  feelings  of  the  Man-destroyer  had  long 
vanished;  the  god  of  the  spear  and  shield  had  ceased 
to  frown  by  the  side  of  the  Arno,  and  the  defences  of 
the  Republic  were  held  to  lie  in  its  craft  and  its  coffers. 
For  spear  and  shield  could  be  hired  by  gold  florins,  and 
on  the  gold  florins  there  had  always  been  the  image  of 
San  Giovanni. 

Much  good  had  come  to  Florence  since  the  dim 
time  of  struggle  between  the  old  patron  and  the  new: 
some  quarrelling  and  bloodshed,  doubtless,  between 
\y  Guelf  and  Ghibelline,  between  Black  and  ^Vhite,  be- 
tween Orthodox  sons  of  the  Church  and  heretic  Paterini ; 
some  floods,  famine,  and  pestilence;  but  still  much 
wealth  and  glory.  Florence  had  achieved  conquests 
over  walled  cities  once  mightier  than  itself,  and  es- 
pecially over  hated  Pisa,  whose  marble  buildings  were 
too  high  and  beautiful,  whose  masts  were  too  honoured 
on  Greek  and  Italian  coasts.  The  name  of  Florence 
had  been  growing  prouder  and  prouder  in  all  the  courts 
of  Europe,  nay,  in  Africa  itself,  on  the  strength  of  purest 
gold  coinage,  finest  dyes  and  textures,  pre-eminent 
scholarship  and  poetic  genius,  and  wits  of  the  most 
serviceable  sort  for  statesmanship  and  banking :  it  was 
a  name  so  omnipresent  that  a  pope  with  a  turn  for 
epigram  had  called  Florentines  "the  fifth  element." 
And  for  this  high  destiny,  though  it  might  partly  de- 
pend on  the  stars  and  Madonna  dell'  Impruneta,  and 
[    120   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

certainly  depended  on  other  higher  Powers  less  often 
named,  the  praise  was  greatly  due  to  San  Giovanni, 
whose  image  was  on  the  fair  gold  florins. 

Therefore  it  was  iBtting  that  the  day  of  San  Gio- 
vanni —  that  ancient  Church  festival  already  venerable 
in  the  days  of  Saint  Augustine  —  should  be  a  day  of 
peculiar  rejoicing  to  Florence,  and  should  be  ushered 
in  by  a  vigil  duly  kept  in  strict  old  Florentine  fashion, 
with  much  dancing,  with  much  street  jesting,  and 
perhaps  with  not  a  little  stone-throwing  and  window- 
breaking,  but  emphatically  with  certain  street  sights 
such  as  could  only  be  provided  by  a  city  which  held  in 
its  service  a  clever  Cecca,  engineer  and  architect,  valu- 
able alike  in  sieges  and  in  shows.  By  the  help  of  Cecca, 
the  very  saints,  surrounded  with  their  almond-shaped 
glory,  and  floating  on  clouds  with  their  joyous  companion- 
ship of  winged  cherubs,  even  as  they  may  be  seen  to 
this  day  in  the  pictures  of  Perugino,  seemed,  on  the  eve 
of  San  Giovanni,  to  have  brought  their  piece  of  the 
heavens  down  into  the  narrow  streets,  and  to  pass 
slowly  through  them;  and,  more  wonderful  still,  saints 
of  gigantic  size,  with  attending  angels,  might  be  seen, 
not  seated,  but  moving  in  a  slow  mysterious  manner 
along  the  streets,  like  a  procession  of  colossal  figures 
come  down  from  the  high  domes  and  tribunes  of  the 
churches.  The  clouds  were  made  of  good  woven  stuff, 
the  saints  and  cherubs  were  unglorified  mortals  sup- 
ported by  firm  bars,  and  those  mysterious  giants  were 
really  men  of  very  steady  brain,  balancing  themselves 
on  stilts,  and  enlarged,  like  Greek  tragedians,  by  huge 
masks  and  stuffed  shoulders;  but  he  was  a  miserably  un- 

[    121    ] 


ROMOLA 

imaginative  Florentine  who  thought  only  of  that  —  nay, 
somewhat  impious,  for  in  the  images  of  sacred  things 
was  there  not  some  of  the  virtue  of  sacred  things  them- 
selves ?  And  if,  after  that,  there  came  a  company  of 
merry  black  demons  well  armed  with  claws  and  thongs, 
and  other  implements  of  sport,  ready  to  perform  im- 
promptu farces  of  bastinadoing  and  clothes-tearing, 
why,  that  was  the  demons'  way  of  keeping  a  vigil,  and 
they,  too,  might  have  descended  from  the  domes 
and  the  tribunes.  The  Tuscan  mind  slipped  from  the 
devout  to  the  burlesque  as  readily  as  water  round  an 
angle;  and  the  saints  had  already  had  their  turn,  had 
gone  their  way,  and  made  their  due  pause  before  the 
gates  of  San  Giovanni,  to  do  him  honour  on  the  eve 
of  his  festa.  And  on  the  morrow,  the  great  day  thus 
ushered  in,  it  was  fitting  that  the  tributary'  s\Tiibols  paid 
to  Florence  by  all  its  dependent  cities,  districts,  and  vil- 
lages, whether  conquered,  protected,  or  of  immemorial 
possession,  should  be  offered  at  the  shrine  of  San  Gio- 
vanni in  the  old  octagonal  church,  once  the  Cathedral 
and  now  the  Baptistery,  where  every  Florentine  had 
had  the  sign  of  the  Cross  made  with  the  anointing 
chrism  on  his  brow;  that  all  the  city,  from  the  white- 
haired  man  to  the  stripling,  and  from  the  matron  to 
the  lisping  child,  should  be  clothed  in  its  best  to  do 
honour  to  the  great  day,  and  see  the  great  sight;  and 
that  again,  when  the  sun  was  sloping  and  the  streets 
were  cool,  there  should  be  the  glorious  race  or  Corso, 
when  the  unsaddled  horses,  clothed  in  rich  trappings, 
should  run  right  across  the  city,  from  the  Porta  al 
Prato  on  the  northwest,  through  the  Mercato  Vecchio, 
[   122   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

to  the  Porta  Santa  Croce  on  the  southeast,  where  the 
richest  of  Palii,  or  velvet  and  brocade  banners  with 
silk  linings  and  fringe  of  gold,  such  as  became  a  city 
that  half-clothed  the  well-dressed  world,  were  mounted 
on  a  triumphal  car  awaiting  the  winner  or  winner's 
owner. 

And  thereafter  followed  more  dancing;  nay,  through 
the  whole  day,  says  an  old  chronicler  at  the  beginning 
of  that  century,  there  were  weddings  and  the  grandest 
gatherings,  with  so  much  piping,  music  and  song,  with 
balls  and  feasts  and  gladness  and  ornament,  that  this 
earth  might  have  been  mistaken  for  Paradise! 

In  this  year  of  1492,  it  was,  perhaps,  a  little  less  easy 
to  make  that  mistake.  Lorenzo  the  magnificent  and 
subtle  was  dead,  and  an  arrogant,  incautious  Piero 
was  come  in  his  room,  an  evil  change  for  Florence, 
unless,  indeed,  the  wise  horse  prefers  the  bad  rider,  as 
more  easily  thrown  from  the  saddle;  and  already  the 
regrets  for  Lorenzo  were  getting  less  predominant 
over  the  murmured  desire  for  government  on  a  broader 
basis,  in  which  corruption  might  be  arrested,  and  there 
might  be  that  free  play  for  everybody's  jealousy  and 
ambition,  which  made  the  ideal  liberty  of  the  good  old 
quarrelsome,  struggling  times,  when  Florence  raised 
her  great  buildings,  reared  her  own  soldiers,  drove 
out  would-be  tyrants  at  the  sword's  point,  and  was 
proud  to  keep  faith  at  her  own  loss.  Lorenzo  was 
dead,  Pope  Innocent  was  dying,  and  a  troublesome 
Neapolitan  succession,  with  an  intriguing,  ambitious 
Milan,  might  set  Italy  by  the  ears  before  long:  the  times 
were  likely  to  be  difficult.  Still,  there  was  all  the 
[   123   ] 


ROMOLA 

more  reason  that  the  Republic  should  keep  its  religious 
festivals. 

And  Midsummer  morning,  in  this  year  1492,  was 
not  less  bright  than  usual.  It  was  betimes  in  the  morn- 
ing that  the  symbolic  offerings  to  be  carried  in  grand 
procession  were  all  assembled  at  their  starting-point 
in  the  Piazza  della  Signoria  —  that  famous  piazza, 
where  stood  then,  and  stand  now,  the  massive  turreted 
Palace  of  the  People,  called  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and 
the  spacious  Loggia,  built  by  Orcagna  —  the  scene  of 
all  grand  state  ceremonial.  The  sky  made  the  fairest 
blue  tent,  and  under  it  the  bells  swung  so  vigorously 
that  every  evil  spirit  with  sense  enough  to  be  formid- 
able, must  long  since  have  taken  his  flight;  windows 
and  terraced  roofs  were  alive  with  human  faces ;  sombre 
stone  houses  were  bright  with  hanging  draperies;  the 
boldly  soaring  palace  tower,  the  yet  older  square  tower 
of  the  Bargello,  and  the  spire  of  the  neighbouring  Badia, 
seemed  to  keep  watch  above;  and  below,  on  the  broad 
polygonal  flags  of  the  piazza,  was  the  glorious  show  of 
banners,  and  horses  with  rich  trappings,  and  gigantic 
ceri,  or  tapers,  that  were  fitly  called  towers  —  strangely 
aggrandized  descendants  of  those  torches  by  whose 
faint  light  the  Church  worshipped  in  the  Catacombs. 
Betimes  in  the  morning  all  processions  had  need  to 
move  under  the  Midsummer  sky  of  Florence,  where 
the  shelter  of  the  narrow  streets  must  every  now  and 
then  be  exchanged  for  the  glare  of  wide  spaces;  and 
the  sun  would  be  high  up  in  the  heavens  before  the 
long  pomp  had  ended  its  pilgrimage  in  the  Piazza  di 
San  Giovanni. 

[    124   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

But  here,  where  the  procession  was  to  pause,  the 
magnificent  city,  with  its  ingenious  Cecca,  had  pro- 
vided another  tent  than  the  sky;  for  the  whole  of  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo,  from  the  octagonal  baptistery 
in  the  centre  to  the  fa9ade  of  the  cathedral  and  the 
walls  of  the  houses  on  the  other  sides  of  the  quadrangle, 
was  covered,  at  the  height  of  forty  feet  or  more,  with 
blue  drapery,  adorned  with  well-stitched  yellow  lilies 
and  the  familiar  coats  of  arms,  while  sheaves  of  many- 
coloured  banners  drooped  at  fit  angles  under  this 
superincumbent  blue  —  a  gorgeous  rainbow-lit  shelter 
to  the  waiting  spectators  who  leaned  from  the  win- 
dows, and  made  a  narrow  border  on  the  pavement, 
and  wished  for  the  coming  of  the  show. 

One  of  these  spectators  was  Tito  Melema.  Bright,  in 
the  midst  of  brightness,  he  sat  at  the  window  of  the 
room  above  Nello's  shop,  his  right  elbow  resting  on 
the  red  drapery  hanging  from  the  window-sill,  and  his 
head  supported  in  a  backward  position  by  the  right 
hand,  which  pressed  the  curls  against  his  ear.  His 
face  wore  that  bland  liveliness,  as  far  removed  from 
excitability  as  from  heaviness  or  gloom,  which  marks 
the  companion  popular  alike  amongst  men  and  women 
' —  the  companion  who  is  never  obtrusive  or  noisy 
from  unea.sy  vanity  or  excessive  animal  spirits,  and  whose 
brow  is  never  contracted  by  resentment  or  indignation. 
He  showed  no  other  change  from  the  two  months  and 
more  that  had  passed  since  his  first  appearance  in  the 
weather-stained  tunic  and  hose  than  that  added  radi- 
ance of  good  fortune,  which  is  like  the  just  perceptible 
perfecting  of  a  flower  after  it  has  drunk  a  morning's 
[    125   ] 


ROMOLA 

sunbeams.  Close  behind  him,  ensconced  in  the  narrow 
angle  between  his  chair  and  the  window-frame,  stood 
the  slim  figure  of  Nello  in  holiday  suit,  and  at  his  left 
the  younger  Cennini  —  Pietro,  the  erudite  corrector 
of  proof-sheets,  not  Domenico  the  practical.  Tito  was 
looking  alternately  down  on  the  scene  below,  and  up- 
ward at  the  varied  knot  of  gazers  and  talkers  imme- 
diately around  him,  some  of  whom  had  come  in  after 
witnessing  the  commencement  of  the  procession  in 
the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  Piero  di  Cosimo  was  raising 
a  laugh  among  them  by  his  grimaces  and  anathemas  at 
the  noise  of  the  bells,  against  which  no  kind  of  ear- 
stuffing  was  a  sufficient  barricade,  since  the  more  he 
stuffed  his  ears  the  more  he  felt  the  vibration  of  his 
skull;  and  declaring  that  he  would  bury  himself  in  the 
most  solitary  spot  of  the  Valdamo  on  afesta,  if  he  were 
not  condemned,  as  a  painter,  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  secrets 
of  colour  that  were  sometimes  to  be  caught  from  the 
floating  of  banners  and  the  chance  grouping  of  the 
multitude. 

Tito  had  just  turned  his  laughing  face  away  from 
the  whimsical  painter  to  look  down  at  the  small  drama 
going  on  among  the  checkered  border  of  spectators, 
when  at  the  angle  of  the  marble  steps  in  front  of  the 
Duomo,  nearly  opposite  Nello's  shop,  he  saw  a  man's 
face  upturned  towards  him,  and  fixing  on  him  a  gaze 
that  seemed  to  have  more  meaning  in  it  than  the  or- 
dinary passing  observation  of  a  stranger.  It  was  a  face 
with  tonsured  head,  that  rose  above  the  black  mantle 
and  white  tunic  of  a  Dominican  friar  —  a  very  com- 
mon sight  in  Florence;  but  the  glance  had  something 
(   126  J 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

peculiar  in  it  for  Tito.  There  was  a  faint  suggestion 
in  it,  certainly  not  of  an  unpleasant  kind.  Yet  what 
pleasant  association  had  he  ever  had  with  monks  ? 
None.  The  glance  and  the  suggestion  hardly  took 
longer  than  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Nello!"  said  Tito,  hastily,  but  immediately  added, 
in  a  tone  of  disappointment,  "ah,  he  has  turned  round. 
It  was  that  tall,  thin  friar  who  is  going  up  the  steps. 
I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  if  you  knew  aught  of  him  ?  " 

"One  of  the  Frati  Predicatori,"  said  Nello,  care- 
lessly; "you  don't  expect  me  to  know  the  private  history 
of  the  crows." 

"I  seem  to  remember  something  about  his  face," 
said  Tito.   "It  is  an  uncommon  face." 

"What?  you  thought  it  might  be  our  Fra  Girolamo? 
Too  tall;  and  he  never  shows  himself  in  that  chance 
way." 

"  Besides,  that  loud-barking  *  hound  of  the  Lord  *  * 
is  not  in  Florence  just  now,"  said  Francesco  Cei,  the 
popular  poet;  "he  has  taken  Piero  de'  Medici's  hint, 
to  carry  his  railing  prophecies  on  a  journey  for  a  while." 

"  The  Frate  neither  rails  nor  prophesies  against  any 
man,"  said  a  midde-aged  personage  seated  at  the  other 
corner  of  the  window;  "he  only  prophesies  against  vice. 
If  you  think  that  an  attack  on  your  poems,  Francesco, 
it  is  not  the  Frate's  fault." 

"Ah,  he's  gone  into  the  Duomo  now,"  said  Tito, 
who  had  watched  the  figure  eagerly.    "  No,  I  was  not 

'  A  play  on  the  name  of  the  Dominicans  {Domini  Canes)  which 
was  accepted  by  themselves,  and  which  is  pictorially  represented 
in  a  fresco  painted  for  them  by  Simone  Memmi. 
[    127   1 


ROMOLA 

under  that  mistake,  Nello.  Your  Fra  Girolamo  has  a 
high  nose  and  a  large  under-lip.  I  saw  him  once  — 
he  is  not  handsome,  but  this  man  .   .   ." 

"Truce  to  your  descriptions!"  said  Cennini.  "Hark! 
see!  Here  come  the  horsemen  and  the  banners.  That 
standard,"  he  continued,  laying  his  hand  familiarly 
on  Tito's  shoulder,  —  "  that  carried  on  the  horse  with 
white  trappings  —  that  with  the  red  eagle  holding  the 
green  dragon  between  his  talons,  and  the  red  lily  over 
the  eagle  —  is  the  Gonfalon  of  the  Guelf  party,  and 
those  cavaliers  close  round  it  are  the  chief  officers  of 
the  Guelf  party.  That  is  one  of  our  proudest  banners, 
grumble  as  we  may ;  it  means  the  triumph  of  the  Guelfs, 
which  means  the  triumph  of  Florentine  will,  which 
means  triumph  of  the  popolani." 

"Nay,  go  on,  Cennini,"  said  the  middle-aged  man, 
seated  at  the  window,  "which  means  triumph  of  the 
fat  popolani  over  the  lean,  which  again  means  triumph 
of  the  fattest  popolano  over  those  who  are  less  fat." 

"Cronaca,  you  are  becoming  sententious,"  said 
the  printer;  "Fra  Girolamo's  preaching  will  spoil  you, 
and  make  you  take  life  by  the  wrong  handle.  Trust 
me,  your  cornices  will  lose  half  their  beauty  if  you 
begin  to  mingle  bitterness  with  them;  that  is  the  maniera 
Tedesca  which  you  used  to  declaim  against  when  you 
came  from  Rome.  The  next  palace  you  build  we  shall 
see  you  trying  to  put  the  Frate's  doctrine  into  stone." 

"That  is  a  goodly  show  of  cavaliers,"  said  Tito, 
who  had  learned  by  this  time  the  best  way  to  please 
Florentines;  "  but  are  there  not  strangers  among  them  ? 
I  see  foreign  costumes." 

[   128   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

"Assuredly,"  said  Cennini;  "you  see  there  the 
Orators  from  France,  Milan,  and  Venice,  and  behind 
them  are  English  and  German  nobles;  for  it  is  cus- 
tomary that  all  foreign  visitors  of  distinction  pay  their 
tribute  to  San  Giovanni  in  the  train  of  that  gonfalon. 
For  ray  part,  I  think  our  Florentine  cavaliers  sit  their 
horses  as  well  as  any  of  those  cut-and-thrust  North- 
erners, whose  wits  lie  in  their  heels  and  saddles;  and 
for  yon  Venetian,  I  fancy  he  would  feel  himself  more 
at  ease  on  the  back  of  a  dolphin.  We  ought  to  know 
something  of  horsemanship,  for  we  excel  all  Italy  in 
the  sports  of  the  Giostra,  and  the  money  we  spend  on 
them.  But  you  will  see  a  finer  show  of  our  chief  men 
by  and  by,  Melema;  my  brother  himself  will  be  among 
the  officers  of  the  Zecca." 

"The  banners  are  the  better  sight,"  said  Piero  di 
Cosimo,  forgetting  the  noise  in  his  delight  at  the  wind- 
ing stream  of  colour  as  the  tributary  standards  ad- 
vanced round  the  piazza.  "The  Florentine  men  are 
so-so;  they  make  but  a  sorry  show  at  this  distance 
with  their  patch  of  sallow  flesh-tint  above  the  black 
garments;  but  those  banners  with  their  velvet,  and 
satin,  and  minever,  and  brocade,  and  their  endless  play 
of  delicate  light  and  shadow !  —  Va  !  your  human  talk 
and  doings  are  a  tame  jest;  the  only  passionate  life  is 
in  form  and  colour." 

"  Ay,  Piero,  if  Satanasso  could  paint,  thou  wouldst  sell 
thy  soul  to  learn  his  secrets,"  said  Nello.  "  But  there  is 
little  likelihood  of  it,  seeing  the  blessed  angels  themselves 
are  such  poor  hands  at  chiaroscuro,  if  one  may  judge 
from  their  capo-cTopcra,  the  Madonna  Nunziata." 
[    129   ] 


ROMOLA 

"There  go  the  banners  of  Pisa  and  Arezzo,"  said 
Cennini.  "Ay,  Messer  Pisano,  it  is  no  use  for  you  to 
look  sullen;  you  may  as  well  carry  your  banner  to  our 
San  Giovanni  with  a  good  grace.  '  Pisans  false,  Floren- 
tines blind '  —  the  second  half  of  that  proverb  will 
hold  no  longer.  There  come  the  ensigns  of  our  sub- 
ject towns  and  signories,  Melema;  they  will  all  be  sus- 
pended in  San  Giovanni  until  this  day  next  year, 
when  they  will  give  place  to  new  ones." 

"They  are  a  fair  sight,"  said  Tito;  "and  San  Gio- 
vanni will  surely  be  as  well  satisfied  with  that  produce 
of  Italian  looms  as  Minerva  with  her  peplos,  especially 
as  he  contents  himself  with  so  little  drapery.  But  my 
eyes  are  less  delighted  with  those  whirling  towers, 
which  would  soon  make  me  fall  from  the  window  in 
sympathetic  vertigo." 

The  "towers"  of  which  Tito  spoke  were  a  part  of 
the  procession  esteemed  very  glorious  by  the  Floren- 
tine populace;  and  being  perhaps  chiefly  a  kind  of 
hyperbole  for  the  all-efficacious  wax  taper,  were  also 
called  ceri.  But  inasmuch  as  hyperbole  is  impracticable 
in  a  real  and  literal  fashion,  these  gigantic  ceri,  some 
of  them  so  large  as  to  be  of  necessity  carried  on  wheels, 
were  not  solid  but  hollow,  and  had  their  surface  made 
not  solely  of  wax,  but  of  wood  and  pasteboard,  gilded, 
carved,  and  painted,  as  real  sacred  tapers  often  are, 
with  successive  circles  of  figures  —  warriors  on  horse- 
back, foot-soldiers  with  lance  and  shield,  dancing  maid- 
ens, animals,  trees  and  fruits,  and  in  fine,  says  the  old 
chronicler,  "all  things  that  could  delight  the  eye  and 
the  heart";  the  hoUowness  having  the  further  advant- 
[    130   ] 


\ 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

age  that  men  could  stand  inside  these  hyperbolic  tapers 
and  whirl  them  continually,  so  as  to  produce  a  phan- 
tasmagoric effect,  which,  considering  the  towers  were 
numerous,  must  have  been  calculated  to  produce  dizzi- 
ness on  a  truly  magnificent  scale. 

"  Pestileriza  I "  said  Piero  di  Cosimo,  moving  from 
the  window,  "  those  whirling  circles  one  above  the  other 
are  worse  than  the  jangling  of  all  the  bells.  Let  me 
know  when  the  last  taper  has  passed." 

"Nay,  you  will  surely  like  to  be  called  when  the 
contadini  come  carrying  their  torches,"  said  Nello; 
"  you  would  not  miss  the  country  folk  of  the  Mugello 
and  the  Casentino,  of  whom  your  favourite  Lionardo 
would  make  a  hundred  grotesque  sketches." 

"  No,"  said  Piero,  resolutely,  "  I  will  see  nothing  till 
the  car  of  the  Zecca  comes.  I  have  seen  clowns  enough 
holding  tapers  aslant,  both  with  and  without  cowls, 
to  last  me  for  my  life." 

"  Here  it  comes,  then,  Piero  —  the  car  of  the  Zecca," 
called  out  Nello,  after  an  interval  during  which  towers 
and  tapers  in  a  descending  scale  of  size  had  been  making 
their  slow  transit. 

"Fediddio!"  exclaimed  Francesco  Cei,  "that  is  a 
well-tanned  San  Giovanni!  some  sturdy  Roraagnole 
beggar-man,  I'll  warrant.  Our  Signoria  plays  the 
host  to  all  the  Jewish  and  Christian  scum  that  every 
other  city  shuts  its  gates  against,  and  lets  them  fatten 
on  us  like  Saint  Anthony's  swine." 

The  car  of  the  Zecca  or  Mint,  which  had  just  rolled 
into  sight,  was  originally  an  immense  wooden  tower  or 
cero  adorned  after  the  same  fashion  as  the  other  trib- 

[    131   ] 


ROMOLA 

utary  ceri,  mounted  on  a  splendid  car,  and  drawn  by 
two  mouse-coloured  oxen,  whose  mild  heads  looked  out 
from  rich  trappings  bearing  the  arms  of  the  Zecca.  But 
the  latter  half  of  the  century  was  getting  rather  ashamed 
of  the  towers  with  their  circular  or  spiral  paintings, 
which  had  delighted  the  eyes  and  the  hearts  of  the  other 
half,  so  that  they  had  become  a  contemptuous  proverb, 
and  any  ill-painted  figure  looking,  as  will  sometimes 
happen  to  figures  in  the  best  ages  of  art,  as  if  it  had  been 
boned  for  a  pie,  was  called  afantoccio  da  cero,  a  tower- 
puppet;  consequently  improved  taste,  with  Ceccato  help 
it,  had  devised  for  the  magnificent  Zecca  a  triumphal 
car  like  a  pryamidal  catafalque,  with  ingenious  wheels 
warranted  to  turn  all  corners  easily.  Round  the  base 
were  living  figures  of  saints  and  angels  arrayed  in  sculp- 
turesque fashion;  and  on  the  summit,  at  the  height  of 
thirty  feet,  well  bound  to  an  iron  rod  and  holding  an 
iron  cross  also  firmly  infixed,  stood  a  living  representa- 
tive of  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  with  arms  and  legs  bare, 
a  garment  of  tiger-skins  about  his  body,  and  a  golden 
nimbus  fastened  on  his  head  —  as  the  Precursor  was 
wont  to  appear  in  the  cloisters  and  churches,  not  having 
yet  revealed  himself  to  painters  as  the  brown  and 
sturdy  boy  who  made  one  of  the  Holy  Family.  For 
where  could  the  image  of  the  patron  saint  be  more  fitly 
placed  than  on  the  symbol  of  the  Zecca  ?  Was  not  the 
royal  prerogative  of  coining  money  the  surest  token 
that  a  city  had  won  its  independence  ?  and  by  the  bless- 
ing of  San  Giovanni  this  "beautiful  sheepfold"  of  his 
had  shown  that  token  earliest  among  the  Italian  cities. 
Nevertheless,  the  annual  function  of  representing  the 
[   132   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

patron  saint  was  not  among  the  high  prizes  of  public 
life;  it  was  paid  for  with  something  Hke  ten  shilhngs, 
a  cake  weighing  fourteen  pounds,  two  bottles  of  wine, 
and  a  handsome  supply  of  light  eatables;  the  money 
being  furnished  by  the  magnificent  Zecca,  and  the  pay- 
ment in  kind  being  by  peculiar  "  privilege  "  presented  in 
a  basket  suspended  on  a  pole  from  an  upper  window 
of  a  private  house,  whereupon  the  eidolon  of  the  austere 
saint  at  once  invigorated  himself  with  a  reasonable 
share  of  the  sweets  and  wine,  threw  the  remnants  to  the 
crowd,  and  embraced  the  mighty  cake  securely  with  his 
right  arm  through  the  remainder  of  his  passage.  This 
was  the  attitude  in  which  the  mimic  San  Giovanni  pre- 
sented himself  as  the  tall  car  jerked  and  vibrated  on  its 
slow  way  round  the  piazza  to  the  northern  gate  of  the 
Baptistery. 

"  There  go  the  Masters  of  the  Zecca,  and  there  is  my 
brother  —  you  see  him,  Melema?"  cried  Cennini,  with 
an  agreeable  stirring  of  pride  at  showing  a  stranger 
what  was  too  familiar  to  be  remarkable  to  fellow  citi- 
zens. "Behind  come  the  members  of  the  Corporation 
of  Calimara,'  the  dealers  in  foreign  cloth,  to  which  we 
have  given  our  Florentine  finish ;  men  of  ripe  years,  you 
see,  who  were  matriculated  before  you  were  born ;  and 
then  comes  the  famous  Art  of  Money-changers." 

"  Many  of  them  matriculated  also  to  the  noble  art 
of  usury  before  you  were  born,"  interrupted  Francesco 
Cei,  "  as  you  may  discern  by  a  certain  fitful  glare  of  the 
eye  and  sharp  curve  of  the  nose  which  manifest  their 

*  ".\rte  di  Calimara,"  "arte"  being,  io  this  use  of  il,  equivalent 
to  corporation. 

[    133   ] 


ROMOLA 

descent  from  the  ancient  Harpies,  whose  portraits  you 
saw  supporting  the  arms  of  the  Zecca,  Shaking  off  old 
prejudices  now,  such  a  procession  as  that  of  some  four 
hundred  passably  ugly  men  carrying  their  tapers  in 
open  daylight,  Diogenes-fashion,  as  if  they  were  looking 
for  a  lost  quattrino,  would  make  a  merry  spectacle  for 
the  Feast  of  Fools." 

"  Blaspheme  not  against  the  usages  of  our  city,"  said 
Pietro  Cennini,  much  offended.  "There  are  new  wits 
who  think  they  see  things  more  truly  because  they  stand 
on  their  heads  to  look  at  them,  like  tumblers  and  mounte- 
banks, instead  of  keeping  the  attitude  of  rational  men. 
Doubtless  it  makes  little  difference  to  Maestro  Vaiano's 
monkeys  whether  they  see  our  Donatello's  statue  of 
Judith  with  their  heads  or  their  tails  uppermost." 

"Your  solemnity  will  allow  some  quarter  to  plaj'ful 
fancy,  I  hope,"  said  Cei,  with  a  shrug,  "else  what  be- 
comes of  the  ancients,  whose  example  you  scholars  are 
bound  to  revere,  Messer  Pietro?  Life  was  never  any- 
thing but  a  perpetual  see-saw  between  gravity  and  jest." 

'  "  Keep  your  jest  then  till  your  end  of  the  pole  is  upper- 
most," said  Cennini,  still  angry,  "  and  that  is  not  when 
the  great  bond  of  our  Republic  is  expressing  itself  in 
ancient  symbols,  without  which  the  vulgar  would  be 
conscious  of  nothing  beyond  their  own  petty  wants  of 
back  and  stomach,  and  never  rise  to  the  sense  of  com- 
munity in  religion  and  law.  There  has  been  no  great 
people  without  processions,  and  the  man  who  thinks 
himself  too  wTselo  be  moved  by  them  to  anything  but 
contem[)t  is  like  the  puddle  that  was  proud  of  standing 

:     alone  while  the  river  rushed  by." 
■  [    134   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

No  one  said  anything  after  this  indignant  burst  of 
Cennini's  till  he  himself  spoke  again. 

"  Hark !  the  trumpets  of  the  Signoria :  now  comes  the 
last  stage  of  the  show,  Melema.  That  is  our  Gonfaloniere 
in  the  middle,  in  the  starred  mantle,  with  the  sword  car- 
ried before  him.  Twenty  years  ago  we  used  to  see  our 
foreign  Podesta,  who  was  our  judge  in  civil  causes, 
walking  on  his  right  hand;  but  our  Republic  has  been 
over-doctored  by  clever  Medici.  That  is  the  Proposto  ^ 
of  the  Priori  on  the  left;  then  come  the  other  seven 
Priori;  then  all  the  other  magistracies  and  officials  of 
our  Republic.  You  see  your  patron  the  Segretario  ?  " 

"There  is  Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero  also,"  said  Tito; 
"his  visage  is  a  fine  and  venerable  one,  though  it  has 
worn  rather  a  petrifying  look  towards  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Nello,  "  he  is  the  dragon  that  guards  the 
remnant  of  old  Bardo's  gold,  which,  I  fancy,  is  chiefly 
that  virgin  gold  that  falls  about  the  fair  Romola's  head 
and  shoulders;  eh,  my  Apollino?"  he  added,  patting 
Tito's  head. 

Tito  had  the  youthful  grace  of  blushing,  but  he  had 
also  the  adroit  and  ready  speech  that  prevents  a  blush 
from  looking  like  embarrassment.  He  replied  at  once,  — • 

"  And  a  very  Pactolus  it  is  —  a  stream  with  golden 
ripples.    If  I  were  an  alchemist — " 

He  was  saved  from  the  need  for  further  speech  by 
the  sudden  fortissimo  of  drums  and  trumpets  and  fifes, 
bursting  into  the  breadth  of  the  piazza  in  a  grand  storm 
of  sound  —  a  roar,  a  blast,  and  a  whistling,  well  befit- 
ting a  city  famous  for  its  musical  instruments,  and  re- 
*  Spokesman,  or  Moderator. 
[    135    ] 


ROMOLA 

ducing  the  members  of  the  closest  group  to  a  state  of 
deaf  isohition. 

Durin<];  this  interval  Nello  observed  Tito's  fingers 
moving  in  recognition  of  some  one  in  the  crowd  below, 
but  not  seeing  the  direction  of  his  glance  he  failed  to  de- 
tect the  object  of  this  greeting  —  the  sweet  round  blue- 
eyed  face  under  a  white  hood  —  immediately  lost  in  the 
narrow  border  of  heads,  where  there  was  a  continual 
eclij)se  of  round  contadina  cheeks  by  the  harsh-lined 
features  or  bent  shoulders  of  an  old  sj)a(lesnian,  and 
where  [)ro(iles  turned  as  sharply  from  north  to  south  as 
weather-cocks  under  a  shifting  wind. 

IJut  when  it  was  felt  that  the  show  was  ended  — 
when  the  twelve  prisoners  released  in  honour  of  the 
day,  and  the  very  harhcri  or  race-horses,  witli  the  arms 
of  their  owners  embroidered  on  their  cloths,  had  followed 
U|)  the  Signoria,  and  been  duly  consecrated  to  San 
Giovanni,  and  every  one  was  moving  from  the  window 
—  Nello,  whose  Florentine  curiosity  was  of  that  lively 
canine  sort  which  thinks  no  trifle  too  despicable  for  in- 
V(\stigation,  put  his  hand  on  Tito's  shoulder  and  said, — 

"  What  acquaintance  was  that  you  were  making 
signals  to,  eh,  giovane  mio  f " 

"Some  lillle  conlndina  who  probably  mistook  me  for 
an  ac(|iiiiint;ince.  for  she  had  honoured  me  with  a  greet- 
ing." 

"Or  who  wished  to  begin  an  acquaintance,"  said 
Nello.  "  Hut  you  arc  bound  for  the  Via  de'  IJardi  and 
the  feast  of  the  Muses:  there  is  no  counting  on  you  for 
a  frolic,  else  we  might  have  gone  in  search  of  adventures 
together  in  the  crowd,  and  had  some  pleasant  fooling  in 
[    136   ] 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD 

honour  of  San  Giovanni.  But  your  high  fortune  has 
come  on  you  too  soon:  I  don't  mean  the  professor's 
mantle  —  thai  is  roomy  enough  to  hide  a  few  stolen 
chickens,  but  —  Messer  Endymion  minded  his  man- 
ners after  that  singular  good  fortune  of  his ;  and  what 
says  our  Luigi  Pulci  ? 

'Da  quel  giomo  in  quk  ch'  amor  m'  acoese 
Per  lei  son  fatto  e  gentile  e  cortese.' ' 

"Nello,  amico  mio,  thou  hast  an  intolerable  trick  of 
making  life  stale  by  forestalling  it  with  thy  talk,"  said 
Tito,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  with  a  look  of  patient  re- 
signation, which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  anger: 
"not  to  mention  that  such  ill-founded  babbling  would 
be  held  a  great  offence  by  that  same  goddess  whose 
humble  worshipper  you  are  always  professing  yourself." 

"I  will  be  mute,"  said  Nello,  laying  his  finger  on  his 
lips,  with  a  responding  shrug.  "  But  it  is  only  under  our 
four  eyes  that  I  talk  any  folly  about  her." 

"  Pardon !  you  were  on  the  verge  of  it  just  now  in  the 
hearing  of  others.  If  you  want  to  ruin  me  in  the  minds 
of  Bardo  and  his  daughter  — " 

"  Enough,  enough ! "  said  Nello.  "  I  am  an  absurd  old 
barber.  It  all  comes  from  that  abstinence  of  mine,  in 
not  making  bad  verses  in  my  youth:  for  want  of  letting 
my  folly  run  out  that  way  when  I  was  eighteen,  it  runs 
out  at  my  tongue's  end  now  I  am  at  the  unseemly  age 
of  fifty.  But  Nello  has  not  got  his  head  muffled  for  all 
that;  he  can  see  a  buffalo  in  the  snow.  Addio,  giovane 
mio." 


CHAPTER    IX 
A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

TITO  was  soon  down  among  the  crowd,  and,  notwith- 
standing his  indifferent  reply  to  Nello's  question 
about  his  chance  acquaintance,  he  was  not  without  a 
passing  wish,  as  he  made  his  way  round  the  piazza  to 
the  Corso  degU  Adimari,  that  he  might  encounter  the 
pair  of  blue  eyes  which  had  looked  up  towards  him  from 
under  the  square  bit  of  white  linen  drapery  that  formed 
the  ordinary  hood  of  the  contadina  at  festa  time.  He 
was  perfectly  well  aware  that  that  face  was  Tessa's;  but 
he  had  not  chosen  to  say  so.  What  had  Nello  to  do  with 
the  matter  ?  Tito  had  an  innate  love  of  reticence  —  let 
us  say  a  talent  for  it  —  which  acted  as  other  impulses  do, 
without  any  conscious  motive,  and,  like  all  people  to 
whom  concealment  is  easy,  he  would  now  and  then  con- 
ceal something  which  had  as  little  the  nature  of  a  secret 
as  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  a  flight  of  crows. 

But  the  passing  wish  about  pretty  Tessa  was  almost 
immediately  eclipsed  by  the  recurrent  recollection  of 
that  friar  whose  face  had  some  irrecoverable  associa- 
tion for  him.  Why  should  a  sickly  fanatic,  worn  with 
fasting,  have  looked  at  him  in  particular,  and  where 
in  all  his  travels  could  he  remember  encountering  that 
face  before?  Folly!  such  vague  memories  hang  about 
the  mind  like  cobwebs,  with  tickling  opportunity  — 
best  to  sweep  them  away  at  a  dash:  and  Tito  had 
[   138   ] 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

pleasanter  occupation  for  his  thoughts.  By  the  time 
he  was  turning  out  of  the  Corso  degU  Adimari  into  a 
side  street  he  was  caring  only  that  the  sun  was  high, 
and  that  the  procession  had  kept  him  longer  than  he 
had  intended  from  his  visit  to  that  room  in  the  Via  de* 
Bardi,  where  his  coming,  he  knew,  was  anxiously 
awaited.  He  felt  the  scene  of  his  entrance  beforehand: 
the  joy  beaming  diffusedly  in  the  blind  face  like  the 
light  in  a  semi-transparent  lamp;  the  transient  pink 
flush  on  Romola's  face  and  neck,  which  subtracted 
nothing  from  her  majesty,  but  only  gave  it  the  exquisite 
charm  of  womanly  sensitiveness,  heightened  still  more 
by  what  seemed  the  paradoxical  boy-like  frankness 
of  her  look  and  smile.  They  were  the  best  comrades 
in  the  world  during  the  hours  they  passed  together 
round  the  blind  man's  chair:  she  was  constantly  ap- 
pealing to  Tito,  and  he  was  informing  her,  yet  he  felt 
himself  strangely  in  subjection  to  Romola  with  that 
simplicity  of  hers:  he  felt  for  the  first  time,  without  1  i 
defining  it  to  himself,  that  loving  awe  in  the  presence 
of  noble  womanhood,  which  is  perhaps  something  like 
the  worship  paid  of  old  to  a  great  nature-goddess,  who 
was  not  all-knowing,  but  whose  life  and  power  were 
something  deeper  and  more  primordial  than  knowledge 
They  had  never  been  alone  together,  and  he  could 
frame  to  himself  no  probable  image  of  love-scenes 
between  them :  he  could  only  fancy  and  wish  wildly  — 
what  he  knew  was  impossible — that  Romola  would  some 
day  tell  him  that  she  loved  him.  One  day  in  Greece,  as 
he  was  leaning  over  a  wall  in  the  sunshine,  a  little 
black-eyed  peasant  girl,  who  had  rested  her  water-pot 
[    139   ] 


ROMOLA 

on  the  wall,  crept  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  him, 
and  at  last  shyly  asked  him  to  kiss  her,  putting  up  her 
round  olive  cheek  very  innocently.  Tito  was  used  to 
love  that  came  in  this  unsought  fashion.  But  Romola's 
love  would  never  come  in  that  way :  would  it  ever  come 
at  all? — and  yet  it  was  that  topmost  apple  on  which 
he  had  set  his  mind.  He  was  in  his  fresh  youth  —  not 
passionate,  but  impressible:  it  was  as  inevitable  that 
he  should  feel  lovingly  towards  Romola  as  that  the 
white  irises  should  be  reflected  in  the  clear  sunlit 
stream;  but  he  had  no  coxcombry,  and  he  had  an  in- 
timate sense  that  Romola  was  something  very  much 
above  him.  Many  men  have  felt  the  same  before  a  large- 
eyed,  simple  child. 

Nevertheless,  Tito  had  had  the  rapid  success  which 
would  have  made  some  men  presuming,  or  would 
have  warranted  him  in  thinking  that  there  would  be 
no  great  presumption  in  entertaining  an  agreeable 
confidence  that  he  might  one  day  be  the  husband  of 
Romola  —  nay,  that  her  father  himself  was  not  without 
a  vision  of  such  a  future  for  him.  His  first  auspicious 
interview  with  Bartolommeo  Scala  had  proved  the 
commencement  of  a  growing  favour  on  the  Secretary's 
part,  and  had  led  to  an  issue  which  would  have  been 
enough  to  make  Tito  decide  on  Florence  as  the  place 
in  which  to  establish  himself,  even  if  it  had  held  no 
other  magnet.  Politian  was  professor  of  Greek  as  well 
as  Latin  at  Florence,  professorial  chairs  being  main- 
tained there,  although  the  university  had  been  removed 
to  Pisa;  but  for  a  long  time  Demetrio  Calcondila,  one 
of  the  most  eminent  and  respectable  among  the  emi- 
[   140   ] 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

grant  Greeks,  had  also  held  a  Greek  chair,  simultane- 
ously with  the  too  predominant  Italian.  Calcondila 
was  now  gone  to  Milan,  and  there  was  no  counterpoise 
or  rival  to  Politian  such  as  was  desired  for  him  by  the 
friends  who  wished  him  to  be  taught  a  little  propriety 
and  humility.  Scala  was  far  from  being  the  only 
friend  of  this  class,  and  he  found  several  who,  if  they 
were  not  among  those  thirsty  admirers  of  mediocrity 
that  were  glad  to  be  refreshed  with  his  verses  in  hot 
weather,  were  yet  quite  willing  to  join  him  in  doing 
that  moral  service  to  Politian.  It  was  finally  agreed 
that  Tito  should  be  supported  in  a  Greek  chair,  as 
Demetrio  Calcondila  had  been  by  Lorenzo  himself, 
who,  being  at  the  same  time  the  affectionate  patron 
of  Politian,  had  shown  by  precedent  that  there  was 
nothing  invidious  in  such  a  measure,  but  only  a  zeal  for 
true  learning  and  for  the  instruction  of  the  Florentine 
youth. 

Tito  was  thus  sailing  under  the  fairest  breeze,  and 
besides  convincing  fair  judges  that  his  talents  squared 
with  his  good  fortune,  he  wore  that  fortune  so  easily 
and  unpretentiously  that  no  one  had  yet  been  offended 
by  it.  He  was  not  unlikely  to  get  into  the  best  Floren- 
tine society:  society  where  there  was  much  more  plate 
than  the  circle  of  enamelled  silver  in  the  centre  of  the 
brass  dishes,  and  where  it  was  not  forbidden  by  the 
Signory  to  wear  the  richest  brocade.  For  where  could 
a  handsome  young  scholar  not  be  welcome  when  he 
could  touch  the  lute  and  troll  a  gay  song  ?  That  bright 
face,  that  easy  smile,  that  liquid  voice,  seemed  to  give 
life  a  holiday  aspect;  just  as  a  strain  of  gay  music  and 
[    141    ] 


ROMOLA 

the  hoisting  of  colours  make  the  work-worn  and  the 
sad  rather  ashamed  of  showing  themselves.  Here  was 
a  professor  likely  to  render  the  Greek  classics  amiable 
to  the  sons  of  great  houses. 

And  that  was  not  the  whole  of  Tito's  good  fortune; 
for  he  had  sold  all  his  jewels,  except  the  ring  he  did 
not  choose  to  part  with,  and  he  was  master  of  full  five 
hundred  gold  florins. 

Yet  the  moment  when  he  first  had  this  sum  in  his 
possession  was  the  crisis  of  the  first  serious  struggle 
his  facile,  good-humoured  nature  had  known.  An 
importunate  thought,  of  which  he  had  till  now  refused 
to  see  more  than  the  shadow  as  it  dogged  his  footsteps, 
at  last  rushed  upon  him  and  grasped  him:  he  was 
obliged  to  pause  and  decide  whether  he  would  surrender 
and  obey,  or  whether  he  would  give  the  refusal  that 
must  carry  irrevocable  consequences.  It  was  in  the 
room  above  Nello's  shop,  which  Tito  had  now  hired  as 
a  lodging,  that  the  elder  Cennini  handed  him  the  last 
quota  of  the  sum  on  behalf  of  Bernardo  Rucellai,  the 
purchaser  of  the  two  most  valuable  gems. 

"  Ecco,  giovane  mio!"  said  the  respectable  printer 
and  goldsmith,  "you  have  now  a  pretty  little  fortune; 
and  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  let  me  place 
your  florins  in  a  safe  quarter,  where  they  may  increase 
and  multiply,  instead  of  slipping  through  your  fingers 
for  banquets  and  other  follies  which  are  rife  among  our 
Florentine  youth.  And  it  has  been  too  much  the  fashion 
©f  scholars,  especially  when,  like  our  Pietro  Crinito,  they 
think  their  scholarship  needs  to  be  scented  and  broidered, 
to  squander  with  one  hand  till  they  have  been  fain  to 
[   142  1 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

beg  with  the  other.  I  have  brought  you  the  money, 
and  you  are  free  to  make  a  wise  choice  or  an  unwise: 
I  shall  see  on  which  side  the  balance  dips.  We  Floren- 
tines hold  no  man  a  member  of  an  Art  till  he  has 
shown  his  skill  and  been  matriculated;  and  no  man  is 
matriculated  to  the  art  of  life  till  he  has  been  well 
tempted.  If  you  make  up  your  mind  to  put  your  florins 
out  to  usury,  you  can  let  me  know  to-morrow.  A  scholar 
may  marry,  and  should  have  something  in  readiness 
for  the  morgcn-cap.  *  Addio." 

As  Cennini  closed  the  door  behind  him,  Tito  turned 
round  with  the  smile  dying  out  of  his  face,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  table  where  the  florins  lay.  He  made  no  other 
movement,  but  stood  with  his  thumbs  in  his  belt, 
looking  down,  in  that  transfixed  state  which  accom- 
panies the  concentration  of  consciousness  on  some 
inward  image. 

"A  man's  ransom!"  —  who  was  it  that  had  said 
five  hundred  florins  was  more  than  a  man's  ransom  ? 
If  now,  under  this  midday  sun,  on  some  hot  coast 
far  away,  a  man  somewhat  stricken  in  years  —  a  man 
not  without  high  thoughts  and  with  the  most  passionate 
heart  —  a  man  who  long  years  ago  had  rescued  a  little 
boy  from  a  life  of  beggary,  filth,  and  cruel  wrong,  had 
reared  him  tenderly,  and  been  to  him  as  a  father  — 
if  that  man  were  now  under  this  summer  sun  toiling 
as  a  slave,  hewing  wood  and  drawing  water,  perhaps 
being  smitten  and  buffeted  because  he  was  not  deft  and 
active?   If  he  were  saying  to  himself,  "Tito  will  find 

'  A  sum  given  by  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride  the  day  after  the 
marriage  {Morgengabe). 

[   143   ] 


ROMOLA 

me:  he  had  but  to  carry  our  manuscripts  and  gems  to 
Venice;  he  will  have  raised  money,  and  will  never  rest 
till  he  finds  me  out "  ?  If  that  were  certain,  could  he, 
Tito,  see  the  price  of  the  gems  lying  before  him,  and 
say,  "I  will  stay  at  Florence,  where  I  am  fanned  by 
soft  airs  of  promised  love  and  prosperity;  I  will  not  risk 
myself  for  his  sake"  ?  No,  surely  not,  if  it  were  certain. 
But  nothing  could  be  farther  from  certainty.  The 
galley  had  been  taken  by  a  Turkish  vessel  on  its  way 
to  Delos:  that  was  known  by  the  report  of  the  com- 
panion galley,  which  had  escaped.  But  there  had  been 
resistance,  and  probable  bloodshed;  a  man  had  been 
seen  falling  overboard:  who  were  the  survivors,  and 
what  had  befallen  them  amongst  all  the  multitude  of 
possibilities  ?  Had  not  he,  Tito,  suffered  shipwreck, 
and  narrowly  escaped  drowning  ?  He  had  good  cause 
for  feeling  the  omnipresence  of  casualties  that  threat- 
ened all  projects  with  futility.  The  rumour  that  there 
were  pirates  who  had  a  settlement  in  Delos  was  not  to 
be  depended  on,  or  might  be  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
What,  probably  enough,  would  be  the  result  if  he  were 
to  quit  Florence  and  go  to  Venice;  get  authoritative 
letters  —  yes,  he  knew  that  might  be  done  —  and 
set  out  for  the  Archipelago  ?  Why,  that  he  should  be 
himself  seized,  and  spend  all  his  florins  on  preliminaries, 
and  be  again  a  destitute  wanderer  —  with  no  more  gems 
to  sell. 

Tito  had  a  clearer  vision  of  that  result  than  of  the 
possible  moment  when  he  might  find  his  father  again, 
and  carry  him  deliverance.   It  would  surely  be  an  un- 
fairness that  he,  in  his  full  ripe  youth,  to  whom  life  had 
[    144   ] 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

hitherto  had  some  of  the  stint  and  subjection  of  a  school, 
should  turn  his  back  on  promised  love  and  distinction, 
and  perhaps  never  be  visited  by  that  promise  agair 
"  And  yet,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  I  were  certain  that 
Baldassarre  Calvo  was  alive,  and  that  I  could  free  him, 
by  whatever  exertions  or  perils,  I  would  go  now  —  now 
I  have  the  money:  it  was  useless  to  debate  the  matter 
before.  I  would  go  now  to  Bardo  and  Bartolommeo 
Scala,  and  tell  them  the  whole  truth."  Tito  did  not  say 
to  himself  so  distinctly  that  if  those  two  men  had  known 
the  whole  truth  he  was  aware  there  would  have  been  no 
alternative  for  him  but  to  go  in  search  of  his  benefactor, 
who,  if  alive,  was  the  rightful  owner  of  the  gems,  and 
whom  he  had  always  equivocally  spoken  of  as  "  lost " ; 
he  did  not  say  to  himself  —  what  he  was  not  ignorant  of 
—  that  Greeks  of  distinction  had  made  sacrifices,  taken 
voyages  again  and  again,  and  sought  help  from  crowned 
and  mitred  heads  for  the  sake  of  freeing  relatives  from 
slavery  to  the  Turks.  Public  opinion  did  not  regard  this 
as  exceptional  virtue. 

This  was  his  first  real  colloquy  with  himself:  he  had 
gone  on  following  the  impulses  of  the  moment,  and  one 
of  those  impulses  had  been  to  conceal  half  the  fact; 
he  had  never  considered  this  part  of  his  conduct  long 
enough  to  face  the  consciousness  of  his  motives  for  the 
concealment.  What  was  the  use  of  telling  the  whole? 
It  was  true,  the  thought  had  crossed  his  mind  several 
times  since  he  had  quitted  Nauplia  that,  after  all,  it  was 
a  great  relief  to  be  quit  of  Baldassarre,  and  he  would 
have  liked  to  know  wJw  it  was  that  had  fallen  ovcrlioard. 
But  such  thoughts  spring  inevitably  out  of  a  relation 
[    145   ] 


ROMOLA 

that  is  irksome.  Baldassarre  was  exacting,  and  had  got 
stranger  as  he  got  older:  he  was  constantly  scrutinizing 
Tito's  mind  to  see  whether  it  answered  to  his  own  ex- 
aggerated expectations ;  and  age  —  the  age  of  a  thick- 
set, heavy-browed,  bald  man  beyond  sixty,  whose  in- 
tensity and  eagerness  in  the  grasp  of  ideas  have  long 
taken  the  character  of  monotony  and  repetition,  may  be 
looked  at  from  many  points  of  view  without  being  found 
attractive.  Such  a  man,  stranded  among  new  acquaint- 
ances, unless  he  had  the  philosopher's  stone,  would 
hardly  find  rank,  youth,  and  beauty  at  his  feet.  The 
feelings  that  gather  fervour  from  noveltv  will  be  of  little 
help  towards  making  the  world  a  home  for  dimmed  and 
faded  human  beings;  and  if  there  is  any  love  of  which 
they  are  not  widowed,  it  must  be  the  love  that  is  rooted 
in  memories  and  distils  perpetually  the  sweet  balms  of 
fidelity  and  forbearing  tenderness. 

But  surely  such  memories  were  not  absent  from  Tito's 
mind  ?  Far  in  the  backward  vista  of  his  remembered  life, 
when  he  was  only  seven  years  old,  Baldassarre  had 
rescued  him  from  blows,  had  taken  him  to  a  home  that 
seemed  like  opened  paradise,  where  there  was  sweet 
food  and  soothing  caresses,  all  had  on  Baldassarre's 
knee;  and  from  that  time  till  the  hour  they  had  parted, 
Tito  had  been  the  one  centre  of  Baldassarre's  fatherly 
cares. 

And  he  had  been  docile,  pliable,  quick  of  apprehen- 
sion, ready  to  acquire :  a  very  bright  lovely  boy,  a  youth 
of  even  splendid  grace,  who  seemed  quite  without  vices, 
as  if  that  beautiful  form  represented  a  vitality  so  ex- 
quisitely poised  and  balanced  that  it  could  know  no 
[    1^6   ] 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

uneasy  desires,  no  unrest  —  a  radiant  presence  for  a 
lonely  man  to  have  won  for  himself.  If  he  were  silent 
when  his  father  expected  some  response,  still  he  did  not 
look  moody;  if  he  declined  some  labour  —  why,  he 
flung  himself  down  with  such  a  charming,  half-smiling, 
half-pleading  air,  that  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  him 
made  amends  to  one  who  had  watched  his  growth  with 
a  sense  of  claim  and  possession:  the  curves  of  Tito's 
mouth  had  ineffable  good-humour  in  them.  And  then, 
the  quick  talent  to  which  everything  came  readily,  from 
philosophical  systems  to  the  rhymes  of  a  street  ballad 
caught  up  at  a  hearing !  Would  any  one  have  said  that 
Tito  had  not  made  a  rich  return  to  his  benefactor,  or 
that  his  gratitude  and  affection  would  fail  on  any  great 
demand  ? 

He  did  not  admit  that  his  gratitude  had  failed;  but 
it  was  not  certain  that  Baldassarre  was  in  slavery,  not 
certain  that  he  was  living. 

"  Do  I  not  owe  something  to  myself  ?  "  said  Tito,  in- 
wardly, with  a  slight  movement  of  his  shoulders,  the 
first  he  had  made  since  he  had  turned  to  look  down  at 
the  florins.  "  Before  I  quit  everj'thing,  and  incur  again 
all  the  risks  of  which  I  am  even  now  weary,  I  must  at 
least  have  a  reasonable  hope.  Am  I  to  spend  my  life  in 
a  wandering  search  ?  I  believe  he  is  dead.  Cennini  was 
right  about  my  florins:  I  will  place  them  in  his  hands 
to-morrow."  ' 

When,  the  next  morning,  Tito  put  this  determination 

into  act  he  had  chosen  his  colour  in  the  game,  and  had 

given  an  inevitable  bent  to  his  wishes.   He  had  made  it 

impossible  that  he  should  not  from  henceforth  desire  it 

[    147    ] 


ROMOLA 

to  be  the  truth  that  his  father  was  dead ;  impossible  that 
he  should  not  be  tempted  to  baseness  rather  than  that 
the  precise  facts  of  his  conduct  should  not  remain  for 
ever  concealed. 

r~  Under  every  guilty  secret  there  is  hidden  a  brood  of 
guilty  wishes,  whose  unwholesome  infecting  life  is  cher- 
ished by  the  darkness.  The  contaminating  effect  of 
deeds  often  lies  less  in  the  commission  than  in  the  con- 
sequent adjustment  of  our  desires  —  the  enlistment  of 
our  self-interest  on  the  side  of  falsity;  as,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  purifying  influence  of  public  confession 
springs  from  the  fact,  that  by  it  the  hope  in  lies  is  for 
ever  swept  away,  and  the  soul  recovers  the  noble  attitude 
I  of  simplicity. 

Besides,  in  this  first  distinct  colloquy  with  himself  the 
ideas  which  had  previously  been  scattered  and  inter- 
rupted had  now  concentrated  themselves;  the  little  rills 
of  selfishness  had  united  and  made  a  channel,  so  that 
they  could  never  again  meet  with  the  same  resistance. 

/Hitherto  Tito  had  left  in  vague  indecision  the  question 
whether,  with  the  means  in  his  power,  he  would  not 
return  and  ascertain  his  father's  fate ;  he  had  now  made 
a  definite  excuse  to  himself  for  not  taking  that  course; 
he  had  avowed  to  himself  a  choice  which  he  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  avow  to  others;  knd  which  would 
have  made  him  ashamed  in  the  resurgent  presence  of 
his  father.  But  the  inward  shame,  the  reflex  of  that  out- 
ward law  which  the  great  heart  of  mankind  makes  for 
every  individual  man,  a  reflex  which  will  exist  even  in 
the  absence  of  the  sympathetic  impulses  that  need  no 
law,  but  rush  to  the  deed  of  fidelity  and  pity  as  inevitably 
[    148   ] 


A  MAN'S  RANSOM 

as  the  brute  mother  shields  her  young  from  the  attack  of 
the  hereditary  enemy  —  that  inward  shame  was  showing 
its  blushes  in  Tito's  determined  assertion  to  himself 
that  his  father  was  dead,  or  that  at  least  search  was 
hopeless.  i 


i 


CHAPTER   X 
UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

ON  the  day  of  San  Giovanni  it  was  already  three 
weeks  ago  that  Tito  had  handed  his  florins  to 
Cennini,  and  we  have  seen  that  as  he  set  out  towards 
the  Via  de'  Bardi  he  showed  all  the  outward  signs  of  a 
mind  at  ease.  How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  He  never 
jarred  with  what  was  immediately  around  him,  and  his 
nature  was  too  joyous,  too  unapprehensive,  for  the  hid- 
den and  the  distant  to  grasp  him  in  the  shape  of  a  dread. 
As  he  turned  out  of  the  hot  sunshine  into  the  shelter  of  a 
narrow  street,  took  off  the  black  cloth  berretta,  or  simple 
cap  with  upturned  lappet,  which  just  crowned  his  brown 
curls,  pushing  his  hair  and  tossing  his  head  backward 
to  court  the  cooler  air,miere  was  no  brand  of  duplicity 
on  his  brow;  neither  was  there  any  stamp  of  candour: 
it  was  simply  a  finely-formed,  square,  smooth  young 
brow|  And  the  slow  absent  glance  he  cast  around  at  the 
upper  windows  of  the  houses  had  neither  more  dissimu- 
lation in  it,  nor  more  ingenuousness,  than  belongs  to 
a  youthful  well-opened  eyelid  with  its  unwearied  breadth 
of  gaze;  to  perfectly  pellucid  lenses;  to  the  undimmed 
dark  of  a  rich  brown  iris;  and  to  a  pure  cerulean-tinted 
angle  of  whiteness  streaked  with  the  delicate  shadows  of 
long  eyelashes.  Was  it  that  Tito's  face  attracted  or  re- 
pelled according  to  the  mental  attitude  of  the  obsen^er  ? 
Was  it  a  cypher  with  more  than  one  key  ?  The  strong, 
[    150   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

unmistakeable  expression  in  his  whole  air  and  person 
was  a  negative  one,  and  it  was  perfectly  veracious;  it 
declared  the  absence  of  any  uneasy  claim,  any  restless 
vanity,  and  it  made  the  admiration  that  followed  him  as 
he  passed  among  the  troop  of  holiday-makers  a  thor- 
oughly willing  tribute. 

For  by  this  time  the  stir  of  the  festa  was  felt  even  in 
the  narrowest  side  streets;  the  throng  which  had  at  one 
time  been  concentrated  in  the  lines  through  which  the 
procession  had  to  pass  was  now  streaming  out  in  all 
directions  in  pursuit  of  a  new  object.  Such  intervals  of 
B.  festa  are  precisely  the  moments  when  the  vaguely  act- 
ive animal  spirits  of  a  crowd  are  likely  to  be  the  most 
petulant  and  most  ready  to  sacrifice  a  stray  individual 
to  the  greater  happiness  of  the  greater  number.  As  Tito  I 
entered  the  neighbourhood  of  San  Martino,  he  found 
the  throng  rather  denser;  and  near  the  hostelry  of  the 
Bertucce,  or  Baboons,  there  was  evidently  some  object 
which  was  arresting  the  passengers  and  forming  them 
into  a  knot.  It  needed  nothing  of  great  interest  to  draw 
aside  passengers  unfreighted  with  a  purpose,  and  Tito 
was  preparing  to  turn  aside  into  an  adjoining  street, 
when,  amidst  the  loud  laughter,  his  ear  discerned  a  dis- 
tressed childish  voice  cr}'ing,  "  Loose  me !  Holy  Virgin, 
help  me!"  which  at  once  determined  him  to  push  his 
way  into  the  knot  of  gazers.  He  had  just  had  time  to 
perceive  that  the  distressed  voice  came  from  a  young 
contadina,  whose  white  hood  had  fallen  off  in  the  strug- 
gle to  get  her  hands  free  from  the  grasp  of  a  man  in 
the  parti -colon  red  dress  of  a  cerrctano,  or  conjuror, 
who  was  making  laughing  attempts  to  soothe  and  cajole 
[    151    ] 


ROMOLA 

her,  evidently  carrying  with  him  the  amused  sjnnpathy 
of  the  spectators.  These  by  a  persuasive  variety  of 
words  signifying  simpleton,  for  which  the  Florentine 
dialect  is  rich  in  equivalents,  seemed  to  be  arguing 
with  the  contadina  against  her  obstinacy.  At  the  first 
moment  the  girl's  face  was  turned  away,  and  he  saw 
only  her  light-brown  hair  plaited  and  fastened  with 
a  long  silver  pin ;  but  in  the  next,  the  struggle  brought 
her  face  opposite  Tito's,  and  he  saw  the  baby  features 
of  Tessa,  her  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  under- 
lip  quivering.  Tessa,  too,  saw  him,  and  through  the 
mist  of  her  swelling  tears  there  beamed  a  sudden 
hope,  like  that  in  the  face  of  a  little  child,  when,  held 
by  a  stranger  against  its  will,  it  sees  a  familiar  hand 
stretched  out. 

In  an  instant  Tito  had  pushed  his  way  through  the 
barrier  of  bystanders,  whose  curiosity  made  them  ready 
to  turn  aside  at  the  sudden  interference  of  this  handsome 
young  signor,  had  grasped  Tessa's  waist,  and  had  said, 
"Loose  this  child!  What  right  have  you  to  hold  her 
against  her  will  ?  " 

The  conjuror  —  a  man  with  one  of  those  faces  in 
which  the  angles  of  the  eyes  and  eyebrows,  of  the  nos- 
trils, mouth,  and  sharply-defined  jaw,  all  tend  upward 
—  showed  his  small  regular  teeth  in  an  impish  but  not 
ill-natured  grin,  as  he  let  go  Tessa's  hands,  and  stretched 
out  his  own  backward,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and 
bending  them  forward  a  little  in  a  haK-apologetic,  half- 
protesting  manner. 

"I  mean  the  ragazza  no  evil  in  the  world,  Messere; 
ask  this  respectable  company.  I  was  only  going  to  show 
[   152   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

them  a  few  samples  of  my  skill,  in  which  this  little 
damsel  might  have  helped  me  the  better  because  of  her 
kitten  face,  which  would  have  assured  them  of  open 
dealing;  and  I  had  promised  her  a  lapful  of  confetti 
as  a  reward.  But  what,  then  ?  Messere  has  doubtless 
better  confetti  at  hand,  and  she  knows  it." 

A  general  laugh  among  the  bystanders  accompanied 
these  last  words  of  the  conjuror,  raised,  probably,  by  the 
look  of  relief  and  confidence  with  which  Tessa  clung  to 
Tito's  arm,  as  he  drew  it  from  her  waist,  and  placed  her 
hand  within  it.  She  only  cared  about  the  laugh  as  she 
might  have  cared  about  the  roar  of  wild  beasts  from 
which  she  was  escaping,  not  attaching  any  meaning  to  it; 
but  Tito,  who  had  no  sooner  got  her  on  his  arm  than  he 
foresaw  some  embarrassment  in  the  situation,  hastened 
to  get  clear  of  observers,  who,  having  been  despoiled  of 
an  expected  amusement,  were  sure  to  re-establish  the 
balance  by  jests. 

"  See,  see,  little  one !  here  is  your  hood,"  said  the  con- 
juror, throwing  the  bit  of  white  drapery  over  Tessa's 
head.  " Orsii,  bear  me  no  malice;  come  back  to  me 
when  Messere  can  spare  you." 

"  Ah !  Maestro  Vaiano,  she  '11  come  back  presently,  as 
the  toad  said  to  the  harrow,"  called  out  one  of  the 
spectators,  seeing  how  Tessa  started  and  shrank  at 
the  action  of  the  conjuror. 

Tito  pushed  his  way  vigorously  towards  the  corner  of 
a  side  street,  a  little  vexed  at  this  delay  in  his  progress  to 
the  Via  de'  Bardi,  and  intending  to  get  rid  of  the  poor 
little  contadina  as  soon  as  possible.  The  next  street,  too, 
had  its  passengers  inclined  to  make  holiday  remarks  on 
[    153   ] 


ROMOLA 

so  unusual  a  pair;  but  they  had  no  sooner  entered  it 
than  he  said,  in  a  kind  but  hurried  manner,  "  Now,  httle 
one,  where  were  you  going  ?  Are  you  come  by  yourself 
to  the  festa?" 

"Ah,  no!"  said  Tessa,  looking  frightened  and  dis- 
tressed again ;  "  I  have  lost  my  mother  in  the  crowd  — 
her  and  my  father-in-law.  They  will  be  angrv^ — he  will 
beat  me.  It  was  in  the  crowd  in  San  Pulinari  —  some- 
body pushed  me  along  and  I  could  n't  stop  myself,  so 
I  got  away  from  them.  Oh,  I  don't  know  where 
they  're  gone !  Please,  don't  leave  me ! " 

Her  eyes  had  been  swelling  with  tears  again,  and  she 
ended  with  a  sob. 

Tito  hurried  along  again:  the  Church  of  the  Badia 
was  not  far  off.  They  could  enter  it  by  the  cloister  that 
opened  at  the  back,  and  in  the  church  he  could  talk  to 
Tessa  —  perhaps  leave  her.  No !  it  was  an  hour  at 
which  the  church  was  not  open ;  but  they  paused  under 
the  shelter  of  the  cloister,  and  he  said,  "Have  you  no 
cousin  or  friend  in  Florence,  my  little  Tessa,  whose 
house  you  could  find;  or  are  you  afraid  of  walking  by 
yourself  since  you  have  been  frightened  by  the  con- 
juror ?  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Oltrarno,  but  if  I  could 
take  you  anywhere  near  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  frightened :  he  was  the  Devil  —  I  know  he 
was.  And  I  don't  know  where  to  go.  I  have  nobody:  and 
my  mother  meant  to  have  her  dinner  somewhere,  and  I 
don't  know  where.    Holy  Madonna!  I  shall  be  beaten." 

The  corners  of  the  pouting  mouth  went  down  pitCr 
ously,  and  the  poor  little  bosom  with  the  beads  on  it 
above  the  green  serge  gown  heaved  so  that  there  was  no 
[   154   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

longer  any  help  for  it:  a  loud  sob  would  come,  and  the 
big  tears  fell  as  if  they  were  making  up  for  lost  time. 
Here  was  a  situation!  It  would  have  been  brutal  to 
leave  her,  and  Tito's  nature  was  all  gentleness.  He 
wished  at  that  moment  that  he  had  not  been  expected 
in  the  Via  de'  Bardi.  As  he  saw  her  hfting  up  her  holi- 
day apron  to  catch  the  hurrying  tears,  he  laid  his  hand, 
too,  on  the  apron,  and  rubbed  one  of  the  cheeks  and 
kissed  the  baby-like  roundness. 

"My  poor  little  Tessa!  leave  off  crying.  Let  us  see 
what  can  be  done.  Where  is  your  home  —  where  do 
you  live  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  sobs  began  to  subside 
a  little  and  the  drops  to  fall  less  quickly. 

"Come!  I'll  take  you  a  little  way,  if  you'll  tell  me 
where  you  want  to  go." 

The  apron  fell,  and  Tessa's  face  began  to  look  as 
contented  as  a  cherub's  budding  from  a  cloud.  The 
diabolical  conjuror,  the  anger  and  the  beating,  seemed 
a  long  way  off. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  home,  if  you  '11  take  me,"  she  said,  in 
a  half-whisper,  looking  up  at  Tito  with  wide  blue  eyes 
and  with  something  sweeter  than  a  smile  —  with  a 
childlike  calm. 

"  Come,  then,  little  one,"  said  Tito,  in  a  caressing  tone, 
putting  her  arm  within  his  again.   "Which  way  is  it?" 

"  Beyond  Peretola  —  where  the  large  pear  tree  is.'* 

"Peretola?  Out  at  which  gate,  pazzarella?  I  am 
a  stranger,  you  must  remember." 

"  Out  at  the  Por  del  Prato,"  said  Tessa,  moving  along 
with  a  very  fast  hold  on  Tito's  arm. 
[    155   ] 


ROMOLA 

He  did  not  know  all  the  turnings  well  enough  to  ven- 
ture on  an  attempt  at  choosing  the  quietest  streets ;  and 
besides,  it  occurred  to  him  that  where  the  passengers 
were  most  numerous  there  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
chance  of  meeting  with  Monna  Ghita  and  finding  an 
end  to  his  knight-errantship.  So  he  made  straight  for 
Porta  Rossa,  and  on  to  Ognissanti,  showing  his  usual 
bright  propitiatory  face  to  the  mixed  observers  who 
threw  their  jests  at  him  and  his  little  heavy-shod  maiden 
with  much  liberality.  Mingled  with  the  more  decent  holi- 
day-makers there  were  frolicsome  apprentices,  rather 
envious  of  his  good  fortune ;  bold-eyed  women  with  the 
badge  of  the  yellow  veil;  beggars  who  thrust  forward 
their  caps  for  alms,  in  derision  at  Tito's  evident  haste; 
dicers,  sharpers,  and  loungers  of  the  worst  sort;  boys 
whose  tongues  were  used  to  wag  in  concert  at  the  most 
brutal  street  games :  for  the  streets  of  Florence  were  not 
always  a  moral  spectacle  in  those  times,  and  Tessa's 
terror  at  being  lost  in  the  crowd  was  not  wholly  unrea- 
sonable. 

When  they  reached  the  Piazza  d'  Ognissanti,  Tito 
slackened  his  pace:  they  were  both  heated  with  their 
hurried  walk,  and  here  was  a  wider  space  where  they 
could  take  breath.  They  sat  down  on  one  of  the  stone 
benches  which  were  frequent  against  the  walls  of  old 
Florentine  houses. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  said  Tessa;  "I  am  glad  we  have  got 
away  from  those  women  and  boys ;  but  I  was  not  fright- 
ened, because  you  could  take  care  of  me." 

"Pretty   little  Tessa!"   said   Tito,   smiling  at  her. 
*'  What  makes  you  feel  so  safe  with  me  ?  " 
[   156   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

*'  Because  you  are  so  beautiful  —  like  the  people 
going  into  Paradise:  they  are  all  good." 

"It  is  a  long  while  since  you  had  your  breakfast, 
Tessa,"  said  Tito,  seeing  some  stalls  near,  with  fruit 
and  sweetmeats  upon  them.   "  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  am  —  if  you  will  have  some  too." 

Tito  bought  some  apricots  and  cakes  and  comfits, 
and  put  them  into  her  apron. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  walk  on  to  the  Prato,  and 
then  perhaps  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  go  the  rest  of  the 
way  alone." 

"  But  you  will  have  some  of  the  apricots  and  things," 
said  Tessa,  rising  obediently  and  gathering  up  her  apron 
as  a  bag  for  her  store. 

"  We  will  see,"  said  Tito,  aloud ;  and  to  himself  he 
said,  "Here  is  a  little  contadina  who  might  inspire  a 
better  idyl  than  Lorenzo  de'  Medici's  *  Nencia  da  Bar- 
berino,'  that  Nello's  friends  rave  about;  if  I  were  only 
a  Theocritus,  or  had  time  to  cultivate  the  necessary  ex- 
perience by  unseasonable  walks  of  this  sort!  However, 
the  mischief  is  done  now :  I  am  so  late  already  that 
another  half-hour  will  make  no  difiference.  Pretty  little 
pigeon!" 

"  We  have  a  garden  and  plenty  of  pears,"  said  Tessa, 
"and  two  cows,  besides  the  mules;  and  I'm  very  fond 
of  them.  But  my  father-in-law  is  a  cross  man:  I  wish 
my  mother  had  not  married  him.  I  think  he  is  wicked; 
he  is  very  ugly." 

"  And  does  your  mother  let  him  beat  you,  poverina  ? 
You  said  you  were  afraid  of  being  beaten." 

"Ah,  my  mother  herself  scolds  me:  she  loves  my 
[    157   ] 


ROMOLA 

young  sister  better,  and  thinks  I  don't  do  work  enough. 
Nobody  speaks  kindly  to  me,  only  the  Pievano  [parish 
priest]  when  I  go  to  confession.  And  the  men  in  the 
Mercato  laugh  at  me  and  make  fun  of  me.  Nobody 
ever  kissed  me  and  spoke  to  me  as  you  do;  just  as  I  talk 
to  my  little  black-faced  kid,  because  I  'm  very  fond  of 
it." 

It  seemed  not  to  have  entered  Tessa's  mind  that  there 
was  any  change  in  Tito's  appearance  since  the  morning 
he  begged  the  milk  from  her,  and  that  he  looked  now 
like  a  personage  for  whom  she  must  summon  her  little 
stock  of  reverent  words  and  signs.  He  had  impressed 
her  too  differently  from  any  human  being  who  had  ever 
come  near  her  before,  for  her  to  make  any  comparison  of 
details;  she  took  no  note  of  his  dress;  he  was  simply  a 
voice  and  a  face  to  her,  something  come  from  Paradise 
into  a  world  where  most  things  seemed  hard  and  angry; 
and  she  prattled  with  as  little  restraint  as  if  he  had  been 
an  imaginary  companion  born  of  her  own  lovingness 
and  the  sunshine. 

They  had  now  reached  the  Prato,  which  at  that  time 
was  a  large  open  space  within  the  walls,  where  the  Flor- 
entine youth  played  at  their  favourite  Calcio  —  a  pe- 
culiar kind  of  football  —  and  otherwise  exercised  them- 
selves. At  this  midday  time  it  was  forsaken  and  quiet 
to  the  very  gates,  where  a  tent  had  been  erected  in  pre- 
paration for  the  race.  On  the  border  of  this  wide 
meadow,  Tito  paused  and  said,  — 

"Now,  Tessa,  you  will  not  be  frightened  if  I  leave 
you  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  by  yourself.  Addio! 
Shall  I  come  and  buy  a  cup  of  milk  from  you  in  the  Mer- 
[    158   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

cato  to-morrow   morning,  to  see  that  you  are  quite 
safe?" 

He  added  this  question  in  a  soothing  tone,  as  he  saw 
her  eyes  widening  sorrowfully,  and  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  falling.  She  said  nothing  at  first;  she  only  opened 
her  apron  and  looked  down  at  her  apricots  and  sweet- 
meats. Then  she  looked  up  at  him  again  and  said  com- 
plainingly,  — 

"I  thought  you  would  have  some,  and  we  could  sit 
down  under  a  tree  outside  the  gate,  and  eat  them  to- 
gether." 

"Tessa,  Tessa,  you  little  siren,  you  would  ruin  me," 
said  Tito,  laughing,  and  kissing  both  her  cheeks,  "I 
ought  to  have  been  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi  long  ago. 
No!  I  must  go  back  now;  you  are  in  no  danger.  There 
—  1 11  take  an  apricot.    Addio ! " 

He  had  already  stepped  two  yards  from  her  when  he 
said  the  last  word.  Tessa  could  not  have  spoken;  she 
was  pale,  and  a  great  sob  was  rising;  but  she  turned 
round  as  if  she  felt  there  was  no  hope  for  her,  and 
stepped  on,  holding  her  apron  so  forgetfully  tliat  the 
apricots  began  to  roll  out  on  the  grass. 

Tito  could  not  help  looking  after  her,  and  seeing 
her  shoulders  rise  to  the  bursting  sob,  and  the  apri- 
cots fall,  could  not  help  going  after  her  and  picking 
them  up.  It  was  very  hard  upon  him:  he  was  a  long 
way  off  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  and  very  near  to  Tessa. 

"  See,  my  silly  one,"  he  said,  picking  up  the  apricots. 
"  Come,  leave  off  crying,  I  will  go  with  you,  and  we  '11 
sit  down  under  the  tree.   Come,  I  don't  like  to  see  you 
cry ;  but  you  know  I  must  go  back  sometime." 
[    159   ] 


ROMOLA 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  they  found  a  great  plane 
tree  not  far  outside  the  gates,  and  they  sat  down  under 
it,  and  all  the  feast  was  spread  out  on  Tessa's  lap, 
she  leaning  with  her  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree, 
and  he  stretched  opposite  to  her,  resting  his  elbows  on 
the  rough  green  growth  cherished  by  the  shade,  while 
the  sunlight  stole  through  the  boughs  and  played  about 
them  like  a  winged  thing.  Tessa's  face  was  all  content- 
ment again,  and  the  taste  of  the  apricots  and  sweet- 
meats seemed  very  good. 

"You  pretty  bird!"  said  Tito,  looking  at  her  as  she 
sat  eyeing  the  remains  of  the  feast  with  an  evident 
mental  debate  about  saving  them,  since  he  had  said  he 
would  not  have  any  more.  "  To  think  of  any  one  scold- 
ing you !  What  sins  do  you  tell  of  at  confession,  Tessa  ?  ** 

"Oh,  a  great  many.  I  am  often  naughty.  I  don't 
like  work,  and  I  can't  help  being  idle,  though  I  know 
I  shall  be  beaten  and  scolded ;  and  I  give  the  mules  the 
best  fodder  when  nobody  sees  me,  and  then  when  the 
Madre  is  angry  I  say  I  did  n't  do  it,  and  that  makes 
me  frightened  at  the  Devil.  I  think  the  conjuror  was 
the  Devil.  I  am  not  so  frightened  after  I've  been  to 
confession.  And  see,  I  've  got  a  Breve  here  that  a  good 
father,  who  came  to  Prato  preaching  this  Easter,  blessed 
and  gave  us  all."  Here  Tessa  drew  from  her  bosom 
a  tiny  bag  carefully  fastened  up.  "  And  I  think  the  holy 
Madonna  will  take  care  of  me;  she  looks  as  if  she 
would ;  and  perhaps  if  I  was  n't  idle,  she  would  n't  let 
me  be  beaten." 

"  If  they  are  so  cruel  to  you,  Tessa,  should  n't  you 
like  to  leave  them,  and  go  and  live  with  a  beautiful 
[    160   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

lady  who  would  be  kind  to  you,  if  she  would  have  you 
to  wait  upon  her?" 

Tessa  seemed  to  hold  her  breath  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Then  she  said  doubtfully,  "  I  don't  know." 

"Then  should  you  like  to  be  my  little  servant,  and 
live  with  me?"  said  Tito,  smiling.  He  meant  no  more 
than  to  see  what  sort  of  pretty  look  and  answer  she 
would  give. 

There  was  a  flush  of  joy  immediately.  "Will  you 
take  me  with  you  now  ?  Ah !  I  should  n't  go  home  and 
be  beaten  then."  She  paused  a  little  while,  and  then 
added  more  doubtfully,  "  But  I  should  like  to  fetch  my 
black-faced  kid." 

"Yes,  you  must  go  back  to  your  kid,  my  Tessa," 
said  Tito,  rising,  "  and  I  must  go  the  other  way." 

"By  Jupiter!"  he  added,  as  he  went  from  under 
the  shade  of  the  tree,  "  it  is  not  a  pleasant  time  of  day 
to  walk  from  here  to  the  Via  de'  Bardi;  I  am  more 
inclined  to  lie  down  and  sleep  in  this  shade." 

It  ended  so.  Tito  had  an  unconquerable  aversion 
to  anything  unpleasant,  even  when  an  object  very 
much  loved  and  desired  was  on  the  other  side  of  it^ 
He  had  risen  early;  had  waited;  had  seen  sights,  and 
had  been  already  walking  in  the  sun:  he  waij  inclined 
for  a  siesta,  and  inclined  all  the  more  because  little 
Tessa  was  there,  and  seemed  to  make  the  air  softer. 
He  lay  down  on  the  grass  again,  putting  his  cap  under 
his  head  on  a  green  tuft  by  the  side  of  Tessa.  That  was 
not  quite  comfortable;  so  he  moved  again,  and  asked 
Tessa  to  let  him  rest  his  head  against  her  lap;  and  in 
that  way  he  soon  fell  asleep.  Tessa  sat  quiet  as  a  dove 
[    161    ] 


ROMOLA 

on  its  nest,  just  venturing,  when  he  was  fast  asleep, 
to  touch  the  wonderful  dark  curls  that  fell  backward 
from  his  ear.  She  was  too  happy  to  go  to  sleep  —  too 
happy  to  think  that  Tito  would  wake  up,  and  that  then 
he  would  leave  her,  and  she  must  go  home.  It  takes 
very  little  water  to  make  a  perfect  pool  for  a  tiny  fish, 
where  it  will  find  its  world  and  paradise  all  in  one,  and 
never  have  a  presentiment  of  the  dry  bank.  The  fretted 
summer  shade,  and  stillness,  and  the  gentle  breathing 
of  some  loved  life  near  —  it  would  be  paradise  to  us 
all,  if  eager  thought,  the  strong  angel  with  the  implac- 
able brow,  had  not  long  since  closed  the  gates. 

It  really  was  a  long  while  before  the  waking  came 
—  before  the  long  dark  eyes  opened  at  Tessa,  first 
with  a  little  surprise,  and  then  with  a  smile,  which  was 
soon  quenched  by  some  preoccupying  thought.  Tito's 
deeper  sleep  had  broken  into  a  doze,  in  which  he  felt 
himself  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  explaining  his  failure  to 
appear  at  the  appointed  time.  The  clear  images  of 
that  doze  urged  him  to  start  up  at  once  to  a  sitting 
posture,  and  as  he  stretched  his  arms  and  shook  his 
cap,  he  said,  — 

"  Tessa,  little  one,  you  have  let  me  sleep  too  long.  My 
hunger  and  the  shadows  together  tell  me  that  the  sun 
has  done  much  travel  since  I  fell  asleep.  I  must  lose 
no  more  time.  Addio,"  he  ended,  patting  her  cheek 
with  one  hand,  and  settling  his  cap  with  the  other. 

She  said  nothing,  but  there  were  signs  in  her  face 
which  made  him  speak  again  in  as  serious  and  as  chiding 
a  tone  as  he  could  command,  — 

"Now,  Tessa,  you  must  not  cry.  I  shall  be  angry; 
[    162   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

I  shall  not  love  you  if  you  cry.  You  must  go  home 
to  your  black-faced  kid,  or  if  you  like  you  may  go  back 
to  the  gate  and  see  the  horses  start.  But  I  can  stay 
with  you  no  longer,  and  if  you  cry,  I  shall  think  you 
are  troublesome  to  me." 

The  rising  tears  were  checked  by  terror  at  this  change 
in  Tito's  voice.  Tessa  turned  very  pale,  and  sat  in 
trembling  silence,  with  her  blue  eyes  widened  by  ar- 
rested tears. 

"  Look,  now,"  Tito  went  on,  soothingly,  opening  the 
wallet  that  hung  at  his  belt,  "here  is  a  pretty  charm 
that  I  have  had  a  long  while  —  ever  since  I  was  in 
Sicily,  a  country  a  long  way  off." 

His  wallet  had  many  Httle  matters  in  it  mingled 
with  small  coins,  and  he  had  the  usual  difficulty  in 
laying  his  finger  on  the  right  thing.  He  unhooked  his 
wallet,  and  turned  out  the  contents  on  Tessa's  lap. 
Among  them  was  his  onyx  ring. 

"Ah,  my  ring!"  he  exclaimed,  slipping  it  on  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  hand.  "I  forgot  to  put  it  on 
again  this  morning.  Strange,  I  never  missed  it!  See, 
Tessa,"  he  added,  as  he  spread  out  the  smaller  articles, 
and  selected  the  one  he  was  in  search  of.  "See  this 
pretty  little  pointed  bit  of  red  coral  —  like  your  goat's 
horn,  is  it  not  ?  —  and  here  is  a  hole  in  it,  so  you  can 
put  it  on  the  cord  round  your  neck  along  with  your  Breve 
and  then  the  evil  spirits  can't  hurt  you:  if  you  ever 
see  thorn  coming  in  the  shadow  round  the  corner,  point 
this  little  coral  horn  at  them,  and  they  will  run  away. 
It  is  a  '  buona  fortuna,'  and  will  keep  you  from  harm 
when  I  am  not  with  you.  Come,  undo  the  cord." 
[    163   ] 


ROMOLA 

Tessa  obeyed  with  a  tranquillizing  sense  that  life 
was  going  to  be  something  quite  new,  and  that  Tito 
would  be  with  her  often.  All  who  remember  their  child- 
hood remember  the  strange  vague  sense,  when  some 
new  experience  came,  that  everything  else  was  going 
to  be  changed,  and  that  there  would  be  no  lapse  into 
the  old  monotony.  So  the  bit  of  coral  was  hung  beside 
the  tiny  bag  with  the  scrap  of  scrawled  parchment  in 
it,  and  Tessa  felt  braver. 

"  And  now  you  will  give  me  a  kiss,"  said  Tito,  econo- 
mizing time  by  speaking  while  he  swept  in  the  contents 
of  the  wallet  and  hung  it  at  his  waist  again,  "  and  look 
happy,  like  a  good  girl,  and  then  — " 

But  Tessa  had  obediently  put  forward  her  lips  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  kissed  his  cheek  as  he  hung  down  his  head. 

"Oh,  you  pretty  pigeon!"  cried  Tito,  laughing, 
pressing  her  round  cheeks  with  his  hands  and  crush- 
ing her  features  together  so  as  to  give  them  a  general 
impartial  kiss. 

Then  he  started  up  and  walked  away,  not  looking 
round  till  he  was  ten  yards  from  her,  when  he  just 
turned  and  gave  a  parting  beck.  Tessa  was  looking 
after  him,  but  he  could  see  that  she  was  making  no 
signs  of  distress.  It  was  enough  for  Tito  if  she  did  not 
cry  while  he  was  present.  The  softness  of  his  nature 
required  that  all  sorrow  should  be  hidden  away  from 
him. 

"I  wonder  when  Romola  will  kiss  my  cheek  in  that 

way  ? "  thought  Tito,  as  he  walked  along.    It  seemed 

a  tiresome  distance  now,  and  he  almost  wished  he  had 

not  been  so  soft-hearted,  or  so  tempted  to  linger  in  the 

[    164   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

shade.  No  other  excuse  was  needed  to  Bardo  and  Rom- 
ola  than  saying  simply  that  he  had  been  unexpectedly 
hindered;  he  felt  confident  their  proud  delicacy  would 
inquire  no  farther.  He  lost  no  time  in  getting  to  Ognis- 
santi,  and  hastily  taking  some  food  there,  he  crossed  the 
Amo  by  the  Ponte  alia  Carraja,  and  made  his  way  as 
directly  as  possible  towards  the  Via  de'  Bardi. 

But  it  was  the  hour  when  all  the  world  who  meant 
to  be  in  particularly  good  time  to  see  the  Corso  were 
returning  from  the  Borghi,  or  villages  just  outside  the 
gates,  where  they  had  dined  and  reposed  themselves; 
and  the  thoroughfares  leading  to  the  bridges  were  of 
course  the  issues  towards  which  the  stream  of  sight- 
seers tended.  Just  as  Tito  reached  the  Ponte  Vecchio 
and  the  entrance  of  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  he  was  sud- 
denly urged  back  towards  the  angle  of  the  intersecting 
streets.  A  company  on  horseback,  coming  from  the 
Via  Guicciardini,  and  turning  up  the  Via  de'  Bardi, 
had  compelled  the  foot-passengers  to  recede  hurriedly. 
Tito  had  been  walking,  as  his  manner  was,  with  the 
thumb  of  his  right  hand  resting  in  his  belt;  and  as 
he  was  thus  forced  to  pause,  and  was  looking  carelessly 
at  the  passing  cavaliers,  he  felt  a  very  thin  cold  hand 
laid  on  his.  He  started  round,  and  saw  the  Dominican 
friar  whose  upturned  face  had  so  struck  him  in  the 
morning.  Seen  closer,  the  face  looked  more  evidently 
worn  by  sickness  and  not  by  age;  and  again  it  brought 
some  strong  but  indefinite  reminiscences  to  Tito. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  —  from  your  face  and  your  ring," 
said  the  friar,  in  a  faint  voice,  —  "  is  not  your  name  Tito 
Melema  ?  " 

[    165   ] 


ROMOLA. 

"Yes,"  said  Tito,  also  speaking  faintly,  doubly 
jarred  by  the  cold  touch  and  the  mystery.  He  was  not 
apprehensive  or  timid  through  his  imagination,  but 
through  his  sensations  and  perceptions  he  could  easily 
be  made  to  shrink  and  turn  pale  like  a  maiden. 

"  Then  I  shall  fulfil  my  commission." 

The  friar  put  his  hand  under  his  scapulary,  and 
drawing  out  a  small  linen  bag  which  hung  round  his 
neck,  took  from  it  a  bit  of  parchment,  doubled  and 
stuck  firmly  together  with  some  black  adhesive  sub- 
stance, and  placed  it  in  Tito's  hand.  On  the  outside 
was  written  in  Italian,  in  a  small  but  distinct  character  : 

"  Tito  Melema,  aged  twenty-three,  with  a  dark,  beau- 
tiful face,  long  dark  curls,  the  brightest  smile,  and  a  large 
onyx  ring  on  his  right  forefinger." 

Tito  did  not  look  at  the  friar,  but  tremblingly  broke 
open  the  bit  of  parchment.    Inside,  the  words  were  : 

"/  am  sold  for  a  slave:  I  think  they  are  going  to  take 
me  to  Antioch.   The  gems  alone  will  serve  to  ransom  me." 

Tito  looked  round  at  the  friar,  but  could  only  ask 
a  question  with  his  eyes. 

"  I  had  it  at  Corinth,"  the  friar  said,  speaking  with 
difficulty,  like  one  whose  small  strength  had  been  over- 
taxed —  "I  had  it  from  a  man  who  was  dying." 

"  He  is  dead,  then  ?  "  said  Tito,  with  a  bounding  of  the 
heart. 

"Not  the  writer.  The  man  who  gave  it  me  was  a 
pilgrim,  like  myself,  to  whom  the  writer  had  intrusted 
it,  because  he  was  journeying  to  Italy." 

"  You  know  the  contents  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  them,  but  I  conjecture  them.  Your 
[    166   ] 


UNDER  THE  PLANE  TREE 

friend  is  in  slavery:  you  will  go  and  release  him.  But 
I  am  unable  to  talk  now."  The  friar,  whose  voice  had 
become  feebler  and  feebler,  sank  down  on  the  stone 
bench  against  the  wall  from  which  he  had  risen  to  touch 
Tito's  hand,  adding,  — 

"I  am  at  San  Marco;  my  name  is  Fra  Luca." 


I 


CHAPTER   XI 
TITO'S  DILEMMA 

WHEN  Fra  Luca  had  ceased  to  speak,  Tito  still 
stood  by  him  in  irresolution,  and  it  was  not  till, 
the  pressure  of  the  passengers  being  removed,  the  friar 
rose  and  walked  slowly  into  the  Church  of  Santa  Feli- 
cita,  that  Tito  also  went  on  his  way  along  the  Via  de' 
Bardi. 

"If  this  monk  is  a  Florentine,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  if  he  is  going  to  remain  at  Florence,  everv-thing  must 
be  disclosed."  He  felt  that  a  new  crisis  had  come,  but 
he  was  not,  for  all  that,  too  evidently  agitated  to  pay 
his  visit  to  Bardo,  and  apologize  for  his  previous  non- 
appearance. Tito's  talent  for  concealment  was  being 
fast  developed  into  something  less  neutral.  It  was  still 
possible — perhaps  it  might  be  inevitable — for  him  to 
accept  frankly  the  altered  conditions,  and  avow  Baldas- 
sarre's  existence ;  but  hardly  without  casting  an  unpleas- 
ant light  backward  on  his  original  reticence  as  studied 
equivocation  in  order  to  avoid  the  fulfilment  of  a  secretly 
recognized  claim,  to  say  nothing  of  his  quiet  settlement 
of  himself  and  investment  of  his  florins,  when,  it  would 
be  clear,  his  benefactor's  fate  had  not  been  certified. 
It  was  at  least  provisionally  wise  to  act  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  for  the  present  he  would  suspend 
decisive  thought;  there  was  all  the  night  for  meditation, 
and  no  one  would  know  the  precise  moment  at  which  he 
had  received  the  letter. 

[    168   ] 


TITO'S  DILEMMA 

So  he  entered  the  room  on  the  second  storey  — 
where  Romola  and  her  father  sat  among  the  parchment 
and  the  marble,  aloof  from  the  life  of  the  streets  on  holi- 
days as  well  as  on  common  days  —  with  a  face  only  a 
little  less  bright  than  usual,  from  regret  at  appearing  so 
late;  a  regret  which  wanted  no  testimony,  since  he  had 
given  up  the  sight  of  the  Corso  in  order  to  express  it; 
and  then  set  himself  to  throw  extra  animation  into  the 
evening,  though  all  the  while  his  consciousness  was  at 
work  like  a  machine  with  complex  action,  leaving  de- 
posits quite  distinct  from  the  line  of  talk;  and  by  the 
time  he  descended  the  stone  stairs  and  issued  from  the 
grim  door  in  the  starlight,  his  mind  had  really  reached 
a  new  stage  in  its  formation  of  a  purpose. 

And  when,  the  next  day,  after  he  was  free  from  his 
professorial  work,  he  turned  up  the  Via  del  Cocomero 
towards  the  Convent  of  San  Marco,  his  purpose  was 
fully  shaped.  He  was  going  to  ascertain  from  Fra  Luca 
precisely  how  much  he  conjectured  of  the  truth,  and  on 
what  grounds  he  conjectured  it;  and,  further,  how  long 
he  was  to  remain  at  San  Marco.  And  on  that  fuller 
knowledge  he  hoped  to  mould  a  statement  which  would 
in  any  cas^  save  him  from  the  necessity  of  quitting 
Florence.  (Tito  had  never  had  occasion  to  fabricate  an 
ingenious  lie  before:  the  occasion  was  come  now  —  the 
occasion  which  circumstance  never  fails  to  beget  on 
tacit  falsity;  and  his  ingenuity  was  ready  J  For  he  had 
convinced  himself  that  he  was  not  bound  to  go  in  search 
of  Baldassarre.  He  had  once  said  that  on  a  fair  assur- 
ance of  his  father's  existence  and  whereabout,  he  would 
unhesitatingly  go  after  him.   But,  after  all,  why  was  he 

[    169   1  , 

^    Id 


ROMOLA 

bound  to  go  ?  \^^lat,  looked  at  closely,  was  the  end  of  all 
life,  but  to  extract  the  utmost  sum  of  pleasure  ?  And 
was  not  his  own  blooming  life  a  promise  of  incompar- 
ably more  pleasure,  not  for  himself  only  but  for  others, 
than  the  withered  wintry  life  of  a  man  who  was  past  the 
time  of  keen  enjoyment,  and  whose  ideas  had  stiffened 
into  barren  rigidity  ?  Those  ideas  had  all  been  sown  in 
the  fresh  soil  of  Tito's  mind,  and  were  lively  germs  there: 
that  was  the  proper  order  of  things  —  the  order  of  na- 
ture, which  treats  all  maturity  as  a  mere  nidus  for  youth. 
Baldassarre  had  done  his  work,  had  had  his  draught  of 
life :  Tito  said  it  was  his  turn  now. 

And  the  prospect  was  so  vague :  —  "I  think  they  are 
going  to  take  me  to  Antioch  " :  here  was  a  vista !  After  a 
long  voyage,  to  spend  months,  perhaps  years,  in  a  search 
for  which  even  now  there  was  no  guarantee  that  it 
would  not  prove  vain:  and  to  leave  behind  at  starting 
a  life  of  distinction  and  love:  and  to  find,  if  he  found 
anything,  the  old  exacting  companionship  which  was 
known  by  rote  beforehand.  Certainly  the  gems  and 
therefore  the  florins  were,  in  a  sense,  Baldassarre's :  in 
the  narrow  sense  by  which  the  right  of  possession  is  de- 
termined in  ordinary  affairs ;  but  in  that  large  and  more 
radically  natural  view  by  which  the  world  belongs  to 
youth  and  strength,  they  were  rather  his  who  could  ex- 
tract the  most  pleasure  out  of  them.  That,  he  was  con- 
scious, was  not  the  sentiment  which  the  complicated 
play  of  human  feelings  had  engendered  in  society.  The 
men  around  him  would  expect  that  he  should  immedi- 
ately apply  those  florins  to  his  benefactor's  rescue.  But 
what  was  the  sentiment  of  society  ?  —  a  mere  tangle  of 
[   170   ] 


TITO'S  DILEMMA 

anomalous  traditions  and  opinions,  which  no  wise  man 
would  take  as  a  guide,  except  so  far  as  his  own  comfort 
was  concerned.  Not  that  he  cared  for  the  florins  save 
perhaps  for  Romola's  sake ;  he  would  give  up  the  florins 
readily  enough.  It  was  the  joy  that  was  due  to  him  and 
was  close  to  his  lips,  which  he  felt  he  was  not  bound  to 
thrust  away  from  him  and  so  travel  on,  thirsting.  Any 
maxims  that  required  a  man  to  fling  away  the  good  that 
was  needed  to  make  existence  sweet  were  only  the  lining 
of  human  selfishness  turned  outward:  they  were  made 
by  men  who  wanted  others  to  sacrifice  themselves  for 
their  sake.  He  would  rather  that  Baldassarre  should 
not  suffer:  he  liked  no  one  to  suffer;  but  could  any 
philosophy  prove  to  him  that  he  was  bound  to  care  for 
another's  suffering  more  than  for  his  own  ?  To  do  so 
he  must  have  loved  Baldassarre  devotedly,  and  he  did 
not  love  him:  was  that  his  own  fault?  Gratitude!  seen 
closely,  it  made  no  valid  claim :  his  father's  life  would 
have  been  dreary  without  him:  are  we  convicted  of 
a  debt  to  men  for  the  pleasures  they  give  themselves  ? 
(^Having  once  begun  to  explain  away  Baldassarre's 
claim,  Tito's  thought  showed  itself  as  active  as  a  viru- 
lent acid,  gating  its  rapid  way  through  all  the  tissues  of 
sentiment/  His  mind  was  destitute  of  that  dread  which 
has  been  erroneously  decried  as  if  it  were  nothing  higher 
than  a  man's  animal  care  for  his  own  skin:  that  awe  of 
the  Divine  Nemesis  which  was  felt  by  religious  pagans, 
and,  though  it  took  a  more  positive  form  under  Christ- 
ianity, is  still  felt  by  the  mass  of  mankind  simply  as 
a  vague  fear  at  anything  which  is  called  wrong-doing. 
Such  terror  of  the  unseen  is  so  far  above  mere  sensual 

t   171   ] 


J 


I   ha 
I   un 


ROMOLA 

cowardice  that  it  will  annihilate  that  cowardice:  it  is 
the  initial  recognition  of  a  moral  law  restraining  desire, 
and  checks  the  hard  bold  scrutiny  of  imperfect  thought 
into  obligations  which  can  never  be  proved  to  have  any 
sanctity  in  the  absence  of  feeling.  "It  is  good,"  sing 
the  old  Eumenides,  in  ^schylus,  "  that  fear  should  sit 
as  the  guardian  of  the  soul,  forcing  it  into  wisdom  — 
good  that  men  should  carry  a  threatening  shadow  in 
their  hearts  under  the  full  sunshine;  else,  how  should 
they  learn  to  revere  the  right?"  That  guardianship 
may  become  needless;  but  only  when  all  outward  law 
has  become  needless  —  only  when  duty  and  love  have 
united  in  one  stream  and  made  a  common  force. 

As  Tito  entered  the  outer  cloister  of  San  Marco,  and 
inquired  for  Fra  Luca,  there  was  no  shadowy  presenti- 
ment in  his  mind :  he  felt  himself  too  cultured  and  scep- 
tical for  that :  he  had  been  nurtured  in  contempt  for  the 
tales  of  priests  whose  impudent  lives  were  a  proverb, 
and  in  erudite  familiarity  with  disputes  concerning  the 
Chief  Good,  which  had  after  all,  he  considered,  left  it 
a  matter  of  taste.  Yet  fear  was  a  strong  element  in 
Tito's  nature  —  the  fear  of  what  he  believed  or  saw  was 
likely  to  rob  him  of  pleasure:  and  he  had  a  definite  fear 
that  Fra  Luca  might  be  the  means  of  driving  him  from 
Florence. 

"  Fra  Luca  ?  ah,  he  is  gone  to  Fiesole  —  to  the  Do- 
minican monastery  there.  He  was  taken  on  a  litter  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning.  The  poor  Brother  is  very  ill. 
Could  you  leave  a  message  for  him  ?  " 

This  answer  was  given  by  a  fra  converso,  or  lay 
brother,  whose  accent  told  plainly  that  he  was  a  raw 
[   172   ] 


TITO'S  DILEMMA 

contadino,  and  whose  dull  glance  implied  no  curi- 
osity. 

"  Thanks ;  my  business  can  wait." 

Tito  turned  away  with  a  sense  of  relief.  "  This  friar 
is  not  likely  to  live,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  saw  he  was 
worn  to  a  shadow.  And  at  Fiesole  there  will  be  nothing 
to  recall  me  to  his  mind.  Besides,  if  he  should  come 
back,  my  explanation  will  serve  as  well  then  as  now. 
But  I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was  that  his  face  recalled  to 
me." 


CHAPTER   XII 
THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

TITO  walked  along  with  a  light  step,  for  the  immedi- 
ate fear  had  vanished ;  the  usual  joyousness  of  his 
disposition  reassumed  its  predominance,  and  he  was 
going  to  see  Romola.  Yet  Romola's  life  seemed  an 
image  of  that  loving,  pitying  devotedness,  that  patient 
endurance  of  irksome  tesks,  from  which  he  had  shrunk 
and  excused  himself,  put  he  was  not  out  of  love  with 
goodness,  or  prepared  to  plunge  into  vice :  he  was  in  his 
fresh  youth,  with  soft  pulses  for  all  charm  and  loveli- 
ness ;  he  had  still  a  healthy  appetite  for  ordinary  human 
joys,  and  the  poison  could  only  work  by  degrees.  He 
had  sold  himself  to  evil,  but  at  present  life  seemed  so 
nearly  the  same  to  him  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  the 
bondJ  He  meant  all  things  to  go  on  as  they  had  done 
before,  both  within  and  without  him:  he  meant  to  win 
golden  opinions  by  meritorious  exertion,  by  ingenious 
learning,  by  amiable  compliance:  he  was  not  going  to  do 
anything  that  would  throw  him  out  of  harmony  with 
the  beings  he  cared  for.  And  he  cared  supremely  for 
/  Romola;  he  wished  to  have  her  for  his  beautiful  and 

loving  wife.  There  might  be  a  wealthier  alliance  within 
the  ultimate  reach  of  successful  accomplishments  like 
his,  but  there  was  no  woman  in  all  Florence  like  Romola. 
When  she  was  near  him,  and  looked  at  him  with  her 
sincere  hazel  eyes,  he  was  subdued  by  a  delicious  influ- 
[   174   ] 


^ 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

ence  as  strong  and  inevitable  as  those  musical  vibrations 
which  take  possession  of  us  with  a  rhythmic  empire 
that  no  sooner  ceases  than  we  desire  it  to  begin  again. 

As  he  trod  the  stone  stairs,  when  he  was  still  outside 
the  door,  with  no  one  but  Maso  near  him,  the  influence 
seemed  to  have  begun  its  work  by  the  mere  nearness 
of  anticipation. 

"Welcome,  Tito  mio,"  said  the  old  man's  voice, 
before  Tito  had  spoken.  There  was  a  new  vigour  in  the 
voice,  a  new  cheerfulness  in  the  blind  face,  since  that 
first  interview  more  than  two  months  ago.  "You  have 
brought  fresh  manuscript,  doubtless;  but  since  we 
were  talking  last  night  I  have  had  new  ideas:  we  must 
take  a  wider  scope  —  we  must  go  back  upon  our  foot- 
steps." 

Tito,  paying  his  homage  to  Romola  as  he  advanced, 
went,  as  his  custom  was,  straight  to  Bardo's  chair, 
and  put  his  hand  in  the  palm  that  was  held  to  receive 
it,  placing  himself  on  the  cross-legged  leather  seat  with 
scrolled  ends,  close  to  Bardo's  elbow. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle  way;  "I  have  brought 
the  new  manuscript,  but  that  can  wait  your  pleasure. 
I  have  young  limbs,  you  know,  and  can  walk  back  up 
the  hill  without  any  difficulty." 

He  did  not  look  at  Romola  as  he  said  this,  but  he 
knew  quite  well  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with 
delight. 

"That  is  well  said,  my  son."    Bardo  had  already 

addressed  Tito  in  this  way  once  or  twice  of  late.  "  And 

I  perceive  with  gladness  that  you  do  not  shrink  from 

labour,  without  which,  the  poet  has  wisely  said,  life 

[    175   ] 


ROMOLA 

has  given  nothing  to  mortals.  It  is  too  often  the  'palma 
sine  pulvere,'  the  prize  of  glory  without  the  dust  of  the 
race,  that  attracts  young  ambition.  But  what  says  the 
Greek  ?  '  In  the  morning  of  life,  work ;  in  the  midday, 
give  counsel;  in  the  evening,  pray.'  It  is  true,  I  might 
be  thought  to  have  reached  that  helpless  evening;  but 
not  so,  while  I  have  counsel  within  me  which  is  yet 
unspoken.  For  my  mind,  as  I  have  often  said,  was  shut 
up  as  by  a  dam;  the  plenteous  waters  lay  dark  and 
motionless;  but  you,  my  Tito,  have  opened  a  duct  for 
them,  and  they  rush  forward  with  a  force  that  surprises 
myself.  And  now,  what  I  want  is,  that  we  should  go 
over  our  preliminary  ground  again,  with  a  wider  scheme 
of  comment  and  illustration:  otherwise  I  may  lose  op- 
portunities which  I  now  see  retrospectively,  and  which 
may  never  occur  again.  You  mark  what  I  am  saying, 
Tito?" 

He  had  just  stooped  to  reach  his  manuscript,  which 
had  rolled  down,  and  Bardo's  jealous  ear  was  alive  to 
the  slight  movement. 

Tito  might  have  been  excused  for  shrugging  his 
shoulders  at  the  prospect  before  him,  but  he  was  not 
naturally  impatient;  moreover,  he  had  been  bred  up 
in  that  laborious  erudition,  at  once  minute  and  copious, 
which  was  the  chief  intellectual  task  of  the  age ;  and  with 
Romola  near,  he  was  floated  along  by  waves  of  agree- 
able sensation  that  made  everything  seem  easy. 

"Assuredly,"  he  said;  "you  wish  to  enlarge  your 
comments  on  certain  passages  we  have  cited." 

"Not  only  so;  I  wish  to  introduce  an  occasional 
excursiM,  where  we  have  noticed  an  author  to  whom 
[    176   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

I  have  given  special  study;  for  I  may  die  too  soon  to 
achieve  any  separate  work.  And  this  is  not  a  time  for 
scholarly  integrity  and  well-sifted  learning  to  lie  idle, 
when  it  is  not  only  rash  ignorance  that  we  have  to  fear, 
but  when  there  are  men  like  Calderino,  who,  as  PoH- 
ziano  has  well  shown,  have  recourse  to  impudent 
falsities  of  citation  to  serve  the  ends  of  their  vanity 
and  secure  a  triumph  to  their  own  mistakes.  Where- 
fore, my  Tito,  I  think  it  not  well  that  we  should  let  slip 
the  occasion  that  lies  under  our  hands.  And  now  we 
will  turn  back  to  the  point  where  we  have  cited  the 
passage  from  Thucydides,  and  I  wish  you,  by  way  of 
preliminary,  to  go  with  me  through  all  my  notes  on  the 
Latin  translation  made  by  Lorenzo  Valla,  for  which 
the  incomparable  Pope  Nicholas  V  —  with  whose  per- 
sonal notice  I  was  honoured  while  I  was  yet  young, 
and  when  he  was  still  Thomas  of  Sarzana  —  paid  him 
(I  say  not  unduly)  the  sum  of  five  hundred  gold  scudi. 
But  inasmuch  as  Valla,  though  otherwise  of  dubious 
fame,  is  held  in  high  honour  for  his  severe  scholarship, 
whence  the  epigrammatist  has  jocosely  said  of  him 
that  since  he  went  among  the  shades,  Pluto  himself 
has  not  dared  to  speak  in  the  ancient  languages,  it 
is  the  more  needful  that  his  name  should  not  be  as 
a  stamp  warranting  false  wares;  and  therefore  I  would 
introduce  an  excursus  on  Thucydides,  wherein  my 
castigations  of  Valla's  text  may  find  a  fitting  place. 
My  Romola,  thou  wilt  reach  the  needful  volumes  — 
thou  knowest  them  —  on  the  fifth  shelf  of  the  cabinet." 
Tito  rose  at  the  same  moment  with  Romola,  saying, 
"I  will  reach  them,  if  you  will  point  them  out,"  and 
[    177   ] 


ROMOLA 

followed  her  hastily  into  the  adjoining  small  room,  where 
the  walls  were  also  covered  with  ranges  of  books  in 
perfect  order. 

"There  they  are,"  said  Romola,  pointing  upward; 
"every  book  is  just  where  it  was  when  my  father 
ceased  to  see  them." 

Tito  stood  by  her  without  hastening  to  reach  the 
books.  They  had  never  been  in  this  room  together 
before. 

"I  hope,"  she  continued,  turning  her  eyes  full  on 
Tito,  with  a  look  of  grave  confidence  —  "I  hope  he 
will  not  weary  you ;  this  work  makes  him  so  happy." 

"  And  me  too,  Romola,  —  if  you  will  only  let  me  say, 
I  love  you  —  if  you  will  only  think  me  worth  loving 
a  little." 

His  speech  was  the  softest  murmur,  and  the  dark 
beautiful  face,  nearer  to  hers  than  it  had  ever  been 
before,  was  looking  at  her  with  beseeching  tenderness. 

"I  do  love  you,"  murmured  Romola;  she  looked  at 
him  with  the  same  simple  majesty  as  ever,  but  her  voice 
had  never  in  her  life  before  sunk  to  that  murmur.  It 
seemed  to  them  both  that  they  were  looking  at  each 
other  a  long  while  before  her  lips  moved  again;  yet  it 
was  but  a  moment  till  she  said,  "  I  know  now  what 
it  is  to  be  happy." 

The  faces  just  met,  and  the  dark  curls  mingled  for 
an  instant  with  the  rippling  gold.  Quick  as  lightning 
after  that,  Tito  set  his  foot  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  the 
book-shelves  and  reached  down  the  needful  volumes. 
They  were  both  contented  to  be  silent  and  separate, 
for  that  first  blissful  experience  of  mutual  conscious- 
[    178   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

ness  was  all  the  more  exquisite  for  being  unperturbed 
by  immediate  sensation. 

It  had  all  been  as  rapid  as  the  irreversible  mingling 
of  waters,  for  even  the  eager  and  jealous  Bardo  had  not 
become  impatient. 

"You  have  the  volumes,  my  Romola?"  the  old 
man  said,  as  they  came  near  him  again.  "And  now 
you  will  get  your  pen  ready;  for,  as  Tito  marks  oflf 
the  scholia  we  determine  on  extracting,  it  will  be  well 
for  you  to  copy  them  without  delay  —  numbering  them 
carefully,  mind,  to  correspond  with  the  numbers  in  the 
text  which  he  will  write." 

Romola  always  had  some  task  which  gave  her  a 
share  in  this  joint  work.  Tito  took  his  stand  at  the 
leggio,  where  he  both  wrote  and  read,  and  she  placed 
herself  at  a  table  just  in  front  of  him,  where  she  was 
ready  to  give  into  her  father's  hands  anything  that  he 
might  happen  to  want,  or  relieve  him  of  a  volume  that 
he  had  done  with.  They  had  always  been  in  that  posi- 
tion since  the  work  began,  yet  on  this  day  it  seemed 
new;  it  was  so  different  now  for  them  to  be  opposite 
each  other;  so  different  for  Tito  to  take  a  book  from 
her,  as  she  lifted  it  from  her  father's  knee.  Yet  there 
was  no  finesse  to  secure  an  additional  look  or  touch. 
Each  woman  creates  in  her  own  likeness  the  love-tokens 
that  are  offered  to  her;  and  Romola 's  deep  calm  happi- 
ness encompassed  Tito  like  the  rich  but  quiet  evening 
light  which  dissipates  all  unrest. 

They  had  been  two  hours  at  their  work,  and  were 
just  desisting  because  of  the  fading  light,  when  the 
door  opened  and  there  entered  a  figure  strangely  in- 
[    179   ] 


ROMOLA 

congruous  with  the  current  of  their  thoughts  and  with 
the  suggestions  of  every  object  around  them.  It  was 
the  jBgure  of  a  short,  stout,  black-eyed  woman,  about 
fifty,  wearing  a  black  velvet  berretta,  or  close  cap,  em- 
broidered with  pearls,  under  which  surprisingly  massive 
black  braids  surmounted  the  little  bulging  forehead, 
and  fell  in  rich  plaited  curves  over  the  ears,  while 
an  equally  surprising  carmine  tint  on  the  upper  re- 
gion of  the  fat  cheeks  contrasted  with  the  surrounding 
sallowness.  Three  rows  of  pearls  and  a  lower  neck- 
lace of  gold  reposed  on  the  horizontal  cushion  of  her 
neck;  the  embroidered  border  of  her  trailing  black 
velvet  gown  and  her  embroidered  long  drooping  sleeves 
of  rose-coloured  damask  were  slightly  faded,  but  they 
conveyed  to  the  initiated  eye  the  satisfactory  assurance 
that  they  were  the  splendid  result  of  six  months'  labour 
by  a  skilled  workman;  and  the  rose-coloured  petticoat, 
with  its  dimmed  white  fringe  and  seed-pearl  arabesques, 
was  duly  exhibited  in  order  to  suggest  a  similar  pleasing 
reflection.  A  handsome  coral  rosar}'  hung  from  one 
side  of  an  inferential  belt,  which  emerged  into  certainty 
with  a  large  clasp  of  silver  wrought  in  niello;  and,  on 
the  other  side,  where  the  belt  again  became  inferential, 
hung  a  scarsella,  or  large  purse,  of  crimson  velvet, 
stitched  with  pearls.  Her  httle  fat  right  hand,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  made  of  paste,  and  had  risen 
out  of  shape  under  partial  baking,  held  a  small  book  of 
devotions,  also  splendid  with  velvet,  pearls,  and  silver. 
The  figure  was  already  too  familiar  to  Tito  to  be 
startling,  for  Monna  Brigida  was  a  frequent  visitor 
at  Bardo's,  being  excepted  from  the  sentence  of  ban- 
[    180    ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

ishment  passed  on  feminine  triviality,  on  the  ground 
of  her  cousinship  to  his  dead  wife  and  her  early  care 
for  Romola,  who  now  looked  round  at  her  with  an 
affectionate  smile,  and  rose  to  draw  the  leather  seat  to 
a  due  distance  from  her  father's  chair,  that  the  coming 
gush  of  talk  might  not  be  too  near  his  ear. 

"Za  cugina?"  said  Bardo,  interrogatively,  detecting 
the  short  steps  and  the  sweeping  drapery. 

"Yes,  it  is  your  cousin,"  said  Monna  Brigida,  in 
an  alert  voice,  raising  her  fingers  smilingly  at  Tito, 
and  then  lifting  up  her  face  to  be  kissed  by  Romola. 
"Always  the  troublesome  cousin  breaking  in  on  your 
wisdom,"  she  went  on,  seating  herself  and  beginning 
to  fan  herself  with  the  white  veil  hanging  over  her  arm. 
"Well,  well;  if  I  didn't  bring  you  some  news  of  the 
world  now  and  then,  I  do  believe  you'd  forget  there 
was  anything  in  life  but  these  mouldy  ancients,  who 
want  sprinkling  with  holy  water  if  all  I  hear  about 
them  is  true.  Not  but  what  the  world  is  bad  enough 
nowadays,  for  the  scandals  that  turn  up  under  one's 
nose  at  every  corner  —  /  don't  want  to  hear  and  see 
such  things,  but  one  can't  go  about  with  one's  head 
in  a  bag;  and  it  was  only  yesterday  —  well,  well,  you 
need  n't  burst  out  at  me,  Bardo,  I  'm  not  going  to  tell 
anything;  if  I'm  not  as  wise  as  the  three  kings,  I  know 
how  many  legs  go  into  one  boot.  But  nevertheless, 
Florence  is  a  wicked  city  —  is  it  not  true,  Messer  Tito  ? 
for  you  go  into  the  world.  Not  but  what  one  must  sin 
a  little  —  Messer  Domeneddio  expects  that  of  us,  else 
what  are  the  blessed  sacraments  for?  And  what  I  say 
b,  we  've  got  to  reverence  the  saints,  and  not  to  set  our- 
[    181   ] 


ROMOLA 

selves  up  as  if  we  could  be  like  them,  else  life  would  be 
unbearable;  as  it  will  be  if  things  go  on  after  this  new 
fashion.  For  what  do  you  think  ?  I  've  been  at  the  wed- 
ding to-day  —  Dianora  Acciajoli's  with  the  young  Al- 
bizzi  that  there  has  been  so  much  talk  of  —  and  every- 
body wondered  at  its  being  to-day  instead  of  yesterday; 
but  cieli!  such  a  wedding  as  it  was  might  have  been  put 
off  till  the  next  Quaresima  for  a  penance.  For  there 
was  the  bride  looking  like  a  white  nun  —  not  so  much 
as  a  pearl  about  her  —  and  the  bridegroom  as  solemn 
as  San  Giuseppe.  It's  true!  And  half  the  people  in- 
vited were  Piagnoni  —  they  call  them  Piagnoni  ^  now, 
these  new  saints  of  Fra  Girolamo's  making.  And  to 
think  of  two  families  like  the  Albizzi  and  the  Acciajoli 
taking  up  such  notions,  when  they  could  afford  to  wear 
the  best !  Well,  well,  they  invited  me  —  but  they  could 
do  no  other,  seeing  my  husband  was  Luca  Antonio's 
uncle  by  the  mother's  side  —  and  a  pretty  time  I  had 
of  it  while  we  waited  under  the  canopy  in  front  of  the 
house,  before  they  let  us  in.  I  could  n't  stand  in  my 
clothes,  it  seemed,  without  giving  offence;  for  there 
was  Monna  Berta,  who  has  had  worse  secrets  in  her 
time  than  any  I  could  tell  of  myself,  looking  askance 
at  me  from  under  her  hood  like  a  pinzochcra,^  and  tell- 
ing me  to  read  the  Frate's  book  about  widows,  from 
which  she  had  found  great  guidance.  Holy  Madonna! 
it  seems  as  if  widows  had  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  buy 
their  coffins,  and  think  it  a  thousand  years  till  they 
get  into  them,  instead  of  enjoying  themselves  a  little 

*  Funeral  mourners  :  properly,  paid  mourners. 

*  A  Sister  of  the  Third  Order  of  St.  Francis  :  an  uncloistered  nun. 

[    182   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

when  they've  got  their  hands  free  for  the  first  time. 
And  what  do  you  think  was  the  music  we  had,  to  make 
our  dinner  Hvely  ?  A  long  discourse  from  Fra  Domen- 
ico  of  San  Marco,  about  the  doctrines  of  their  blessed 
Fra  Girolamo  —  the  three  doctrines  we  are  all  to  get 
by  heart;  and  he  kept  marking  them  off  on  his  fingers 
till  he  made  my  flesh  creep:  and  the  first  is,  Florence, 
or  the  Church,  —  I  don't  know  which,  for  first  he  said 
one  and  then  the  other,  —  shall  be  scourged ;  but  if  he 
means  the  pestilence,  the  Signoria  ought  to  put  a  stop 
to  such  preaching,  for  it's  enough  to  raise  the  swelling 
under  one's  arms  with  fright:  but  then,  after  that,  he 
says  Florence  is  to  be  regenerated;  but  what  will  be 
the  good  of  that  when  we're  all  dead  of  the  plague, 
or  something  else?  And  then,  the  third  thing,  and 
what  he  said  oftenest,  is,  that  it 's  all  to  be  in  our  days : 
and  he  marked  that  off  on  his  thumb,  till  he  made  me 
tremble  like  the  very  jelly  before  me.  They  had  jellies, 
to  be  sure,  with  the  arms  of  the  Albizzi  and  the  Accia- 
joli  raised  on  them  in  all  colours;  they've  not  turned 
the  world  quite  upside  down  yet.  But  all  their  talk  is 
that  we  are  to  go  back  to  the  old  ways:  for  up  starts 
Francesco  Valori,  that  I've  danced  with  in  tJie  Via 
Larga  when  he  was  a  bachelor  and  as  fond  of  the 
Medici  as  anybody,  and  he  makes  a  speech  about  the 
old  times,  before  the  Florentines  had  left  off  crying 
'  Popolo '  and  begun  to  cry  '  Palle  *  —  as  if  that  had 
anything  to  do  with  a  wedding! —  and  how  we  ought  to 
keep  to  the  rules  the  Signoria  laid  down  heaven  knows 
when,  that  we  were  not  to  wear  this  and  that,  and  not 
to  eat  this  and  that  —  and  how  our  manners  were  cor- 
[    183   ] 


ROMOLA 

rupted  and  we  read  bad  books;  though  he  can't  say 
that  of  me  —  " 

"  Stop,  cousin ! "  said  Bardo,  in  his  imperious  tone,  for 
he  had  a  remark  to  make,  and  only  desperate  measures 
could  arrest  the  rattling  lengthiness  of  Monna  Brigida's 
discourse.  But  now  she  gave  a  little  start,  pursed  up 
her  mouth,  and  looked  at  him  with  round  eyes. 

"Francesco  Valori  is  not  altogether  wrong,"  Bardo 
went  on.  "Bernardo,  indeed,  rates  him  not  highly, 
and  is  rather  of  opinion  that  he  christens  private 
grudges  by  the  name  of  public  zeal;  though  I  must 
admit  that  my  good  Bernardo  is  too  slow  of  belief  in 
that  unalloyed  patriotism  which  was  found  in  all  its 
lustre  amongst  the  ancients.  But  it  is  true,  Tito,  that 
our  manners  have  degenerated  somewhat  from  that 
noble  frugality  which,  as  has  been  well  seen  in  the 
public  acts  of  our  citizens,  is  the  parent  of  true  magni- 
ficence. For  men,  as  I  hear,  will  now  spend  on  the 
transient  show  of  a  Giostra  sums  which  would  suffice 
to  found  a  library,  and  confer  a  lasting  possession  on 
mankind.  Still,  I  conceive,  it  remains  true  of  us  Floren- 
tines that  we  have  more  of  that  magnanimous  sobriety 
which  abhors  a  trivial  lavishness,  that  it  may  be  grandly 
openhanded  on  grand  occasions,  than  can  be  found 
in  any  other  city  of  Italy;  for  I  understand  that  the 
Neapolitan  and  Milanese  courtiers  laugh  at  the  scarcity 
of  our  plate,  and  think  scorn  of  our  great  families  for 
borrowing  from  each  other  that  furniture  of  the  table  at 
their  entertainments.  But  in  the  vain  laughter  of  folly 
wisdom  hears  half  its  applause." 

"  Laughter,  indeed  ! "  burst  forth  Monna  Brigida 
[    184   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

again,  the  moment  Bardo  paused.  "  If  anybody  wanted 
to  hear  laughter  at  the  wedding  to-day  they  were  dis- 
appointed, for  when  young  Niccolo  MacchiavelH  tried 
to  make  a  joke,  and  told  stories  out  of  Franco  Sacchetti's 
book,  how  it  was  no  use  for  the  Signoria  to  make  rules 
for  us  women,  because  we  were  cleverer  than  all  the 
painters  and  architects  and  doctors  of  logic  in  the 
world,  for  we  could  make  black  look  white,  and  yellow 
look  pink,  and  crooked  look  straight,  and,  if  anything 
was  forbidden,  we  could  find  a  new  name  for  it  —  Holy 
Virgin!  the  Piagnoni  looked  more  dismal  than  before, 
and  somebody  said  Sacchetti's  book  was  wicked.  Well, 
I  don't  read  it  —  they  can't  accuse  me  of  reading  any- 
thing. Save  me  from  going  to  a  wedding  again,  if  that 's 
to  be  the  fashion ;  for  all  of  us  who  were  not  Piagnoni 
were  as  comfortable  as  wet  chickens.  I  was  never 
caught  in  a  worse  trap  but  once  before,  and  that  was 
when  I  went  to  hear  their  precious  Frate  last  Quar- 
esima  in  San  Lorenzo.  Perhaps  I  never  told  you  about 
it,  Messer  Tito  ?  —  it  almost  freezes  my  blood  when  I 
think  of  it.  How  he  rated  us  poor  women !  and  the  men, 
too,  to  tell  the  truth,  but  I  did  n't  mind  that  so  much. 
He  called  us  cows,  and  lumps  of  flesh,  and  wantons, 
and  mischief-makers  —  and  I  could  just  bear  that,  for 
there  were  plenty  others  more  fleshy  and  spiteful  than 
I  was,  though  every  now  and  then  his  voice  shook  the 
very  bench  under  me  like  a  trumpet;  but  then  he  came 
to  the  false  hair,  and,  O  misericordia!  he  made  a  pic- 
ture —  I  see  it  now  —  of  a  young  womaa  lying  a  pale 
corpse,  and  us  light-minded  widows  —  of  course  he 
meant  me  as  well  as  the  rest,  for  I  had  my  plaits  on, 
[    185    ] 


/ 


ROMOLA 

for  if  one  is  getting  old,  one  does  n't  want  to  look  as 
ugly  as  the  Befana,*  —  us  widows  rushing  up  to  the 
corpse,  like  bare-pated  vultures  as  we  were,  and  cutting 
off  its  young  dead  hair  to  deck  our  old  heads  with. 
Oh,  the  dreams  I  had  after  that!  And  then  he  cried, 
and  wrung  his  hands  at  us,  and  I  cried  too.  And  to 
go  home,  and  to  take  off  my  jewels,  this  very  clasp,  and 
everything,  and  to  make  them  into  a  packet, /u  tuWuno; 
and  I  was  within  a  hair  of  sending  them  to  the  Good 
Men  of  Saint  Martin  to  give  to  the  poor,  but,  by  heaven's 
mercy,  I  bethought  me  of  going  first  to  my  confessor, 
Fra  Cristoforo,  at  Santa  Croce,  and  he  told  me  how  it 
was  all  the  work  of  the  Devil,  this  preaching  and  pro- 
phesying of  their  Fra  Girolamo,  and  the  Dominicans 
were  trying  to  turn  the  world  upside  down,  and  I  was 
never  to  go  and  hear  him  again,  else  I  must  do  penance 
for  it;  for  the  great  preachers  Fra  Mariano  and  Fra 
Menico  had  shown  how  Fra  Girolamo  preached  lies 
—  and  that  was  true,  for  I  heard  them  both  in  the 
Duomo  —  and  how  the  Pope's  dream  of  San  Fran- 
cesco propping  up  the  Church  with  his  arms  was  being 
fulfilled  still,  and  the  Dominicans  were  beginning  to 
pull  it  down.  Well  and  good:  I  went  away  con  Dio, 
and  made  myself  easy.  I  am  not  going  to  be  frightened 
by  a  Frate  Predicatore  again.  And  all  I  say  is,  I  wish 
it  had  n't  been  the  Dominicans  that  poor  Dino  joined 
years  ago,  for  then  I  should  have  been  glad  when  I 
heard  them  say  he  was  come  back  — " 

'  The  name  given  to  the  grotesque  black-faced  figures,  supposed 
to  represent  the  Magi,  carried  about  or  placed  in  the  windows  on 
Twelfth  Night:  a  corruption  of  Epifania. 

[   186   1 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

"Silenzio!"  said  Bardo,  in  a  loud  agitated  voice, 
while  Romola  half-started  from  her  chair,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  looked  round  at  Tito,  as  if  now  she  might 
appeal  to  him.  Monna  Brigida  gave  a  little  scream, 
and  bit  her  lip. 

"Donna!"  said  Bardo,  again,  "hear  once  more  my 
will.  Bring  no  reports  about  that  name  to  this  house; 
and  thou,  Romola,  I  forbid  thee  to  ask.  My  son  is  dead." 

Bardo's  whole  frame  seemed  vibrating  with  passion, 
and  no  one  dared  to  break  silence  again.  Monna 
Brigida  lifted  her  shoulders  and  her  hands  in  mute 
dismay;  then  she  rose  as  quietly  as  possible,  gave 
many  significant  nods  to  Tito  and  Romola,  motioning 
to  them  that  they  were  not  to  move,  and  stole  out  of 
the  room  like  a  culpable  fat  spaniel  who  has  barked 
unseasonably. 

Meanwhile  Tito's  quick  mind  had  been  combining 
ideas  with  lightning-like  rapidity.  Bardo's  son  was  not 
really  dead,  then,  as  he  had  supposed:  he  was  a  monk; 
he  was  "  come  back  " :  and  Fra  Luca  —  yes !  it  was  the 
likeness  to  Bardo  and  Romola  that  had  made  the  face 
seem  half-known  to  him.  If  he  were  only  dead  at  Fie- 
sole  at  that  moment!  This  importunate  selfish  wish 
inevitably  thrust  itself  before  every  other  thought.  It 
was  true  that  Bardo's  rigid  will  was  a  sufficient  safe- 
guard against  any  intercourse  between  Romola  and 
her  brother;  but  nut  against  the  betrayal  of  what  he 
knew  to  others,  especially  when  the  subject  was  sug- 
gested by  the  coupling  of  Romola's  name  with  that  of  the 
very  Tito  Melema  whose  description  he  had  carried 
round  his  neck  as  an  index.  No !  nothing  but  Fra  Luca's 
[   187   ] 


J 


ROMOLA 

death  could  remove  all  danger;  but  his  death  was  highly 
probable,  and  after  the  momentary  shock  of  the  dis- 
covery, Tito  let  his  mind  fall  back  in  repose  on  that 
confident  hope. 

They  had  sat  in  silence,  and  in  a  deepening  twilight 
for  many  minutes,  when  Romola  ventured  to  say,  — 

"  Shall  I  light  the  lamp,  father,  and  shall  we  go  on  ?  ** 

"No,  my  Romola,  we  will  work  no  more  to-night. 
Tito,  come  and  sit  by  me  here." 

Tito  moved  from  the  reading-desk,  and  seated  him^- 
self  on  the  other  side  of  Bardo,  close  to  his  left  elbow. 

"Come  nearer  to  me,  figliuola  mia,"  said  Bardo 
again,  after  a  moment's  pause.  And  Romola  seated 
herself  on  a  low  stool  and  let  her  arm  rest  on  her  father's 
right  knee,  that  he  might  lay  his  hand  on  her  hair,  as 
he  was  fond  of  doing. 

"Tito,  I  never  told  you  that  I  had  once  a  son,"  said 
Bardo,  forgetting  what  had  fallen  from  him  in  the 
emotion  raised  by  their  first  interview.  The  old  man 
had  been  deeply  shaken,  and  was  forced  to  pour  out 
his  feelings  in  spite  of  pride.  "  But  he  left  me  —  he  is 
dead  to  me.  I  have  disowned  him  for  ever.  He  was 
a  ready  scholar  as  you  are,  but  more  fervid  and  impa- 
tient, and  yet  sometimes  rapt  and  self-absorbed,  like 
a  flame  fed  by  some  fitful  source;  showing  a  disposition 
from  the  very  first  to  turn  away  his  eyes  from  the  clear 
lights  of  reason  and  philosophy,  and  to  prostrate  himself 
under  the  influences  of  a  dim  mysticism  which  eludes 
all  rules  of  human  duty  as  it  eludes  all  argument. 
And  so  it  ended.  We  will  speak  no  more  of  him:  he 
is  dead  to  me.  I  wish  his  face  could  be  blotted  from  that 
[    188   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

world  of  memory  in  which  the  distant  seems  to  grow 
clearer  and  the  near  to  fade." 

Bardo  paused,  but  neither  Romola  nor  Tito  dared 
to  speak  —  his  voice  was  too  tremulous,  the  poise  of 
his  feelings  too  doubtful.  But  he  presently  raised  his 
hand  and  found  Tito's  shoulder  to  rest  it  on,  while  he 
went  on  speaking,  with  an  effort  to  be  calmer. 

"  But  you  have  come  to  me,  Tito,  —  not  quite  too 
late.  I  will  lose  no  time  in  vain  regret.  When  you 
are  working  by  my  side  I  seem  to  have  found  a  son 
again." 

The  old  man,  preoccupied  with  the  governing  in- 
terest of  his  life,  was  only  thinking  of  the  much-medi- 
tated book  which  had  quite  thrust  into  the  background 
the  suggestion,  raised  by  Bernardo  del  Nero's  warn- 
ing, of  a  possible  marriage  between  Tito  and  Romola. 
But  Tito  could  not  allow  the  moment  to  pass  unused. 

"  Will  you  let  me  be  always  and  altogether  your  son  ? 
Will  you  let  me  take  care  of  Romola  —  be  her  hus- 
band ?  I  think  she  will  not  deny  me.  She  has  said  she 
loves  me.  I  know  I  am  not  equal  to  her  in  birth  —  in 
anything;  but  I  am  no  longer  a  destitute  stranger." 

"Is  it  true,  my  Romola?"  said  Bardo,  in  a  lower 
tone,  an  evident  vibration  passing  through  him  and 
dissipating  the  saddened  aspect  of  his  features. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Romola,  firmly.  "  I  love  Tito  — 
I  wish  to  marry  him,  that  we  may  both  be  your  child- 
ren and  never  part." 

Tito's  hand  met  hers  in  a  strong  clasp  for  the  first 
time,  while  she  was  speaking,  but  their  eyes  were  fixed 
anxiously  on  her  father. 

[    189   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Why  should  it  not  be?"  said  Bardo,  as  if  arguing 
against  any  opposition  to  his  assent,  rather  than  as- 
senting. "It  would  be  a  happiness  to  me;  and  thou, 
too,  Romola,  wouldst  be  the  happier  for  it." 

He  stroked  her  long  hair  gently  and  bent  towards 
her. 

"Ah,  I  have  been  apt  to  forget  that  thou  needest 
some  other  love  than  mine.  And  thou  wilt  be  a  noble 
wife.  Bernardo  thinks  I  shall  hardly  find  a  husband 
fitting  for  thee.  And  he  is  perhaps  right.  For  thou 
art  not  like  the  herd  of  thy  sex :  thou  art  such  a  woman 
as  the  immortal  poets  had  a  vision  of  when  they  sang 
the  lives  of  the  heroes  —  tender  but  strong,  like  thy 
voice,  which  has  been  to  me  instead  of  the  light  in  the 
years  of  my  blindness.  .  .  .  And  so  thou  lovest  him  ?  " 

He  sat  upright  again  for  a  minute,  and  then  said, 
in  the  same  tone  as  before,  "Why  should  it  not  be? 
I  will  think  of  it;  I  will  talk  with  Bernardo." 

Tito  felt  a  disagreeable  chill  at  this  answer,  for 
Bernardo  del  Nero's  eyes  had  retained  their  keen  sus- 
picion whenever  they  looked  at  him,  and  the  uneasy 
remembrance  of  Fra  Luca  converted  all  uncertainty 
into  fear. 

"  Speak  for  me,  Romola,"  he  said,  pleadingly.  "  Mes- 
ser  Bernardo  is  sure  to  be  against  me." 

"No,  Tito,"  said  Romola,  "my  godfather  will  not 
oppose  what  my  father  firmly  wills.  And  it  is  your 
will  that  I  should  marry  Tito  —  is  it  not  true,  father  ? 
Nothing  has  ever  come  to  me  before  that  I  have  wished 
for  strongly:  I  did  not  think  it  possible  that  I  could  care 
so  much  for  anything  that  could  happen  to  myself.' 
[    190   ] 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED 

It  was  a  brief  and  simple  plea;  but  it  was  the  con- 
densed story  of  Romola's  self-repressing,  colourless 
young  life,  which  had  thrown  all  its  passions  into  sym- 
pathy with  aged  sorrows,  aged  ambition,  aged  pride 
and  indignation.  It  had  never  occurred  to  Romola 
that  she  should  not  speak  as  directly  and  emphatically 
of  her  love  for  Tito  as  of  any  other  subject. 

"Romola  mia!"  said  her  father  fondly,  pausing 
on  the  words,  "  it  is  true  thou  hast  never  urged  on  me 
any  wishes  of  thy  own.  And  I  have  no  will  to  resist 
thine:  rather,  my  heart  met  Tito's  entreaty  at  its  very 
first  utterance.  Nevertheless,  I  must  talk  with  Ber- 
nardo about  the  measures  needful  to  be  observed.  For 
we  must  not  act  in  haste,  or  do  anything  unbeseeming 
my  name.  I  am  poor,  and  held  of  little  account  by  the 
wealthy  of  our  family  —  nay,  I  may  consider  myself 
a  lonely  man;  but  I  must  nevertheless  remember  that 
generous  birth  has  its  obligations.  And  I  would  not 
be  reproached  by  my  fellow  citizens  for  rash  haste  in 
bestowing  my  daughter.  Bartolommeo  Scala  gave  his 
Alessandra  to  the  Greek  Marullo,  but  Marullo's  line- 
age was  well  known,  and  Scala  himself  is  of  no  extrac- 
tion. I  know  Bernardo  will  hold  that  we  must  take  time: 
he  will,  perhaps,  reproach  me  with  want  of  due  fore- 
thought. Be  patient,  my  children :  you  are  very  young." 

No  more  could  be  said,  and  Romola's  heart  was 
perfectly  satisfied.  Not  so  Tito's.  If  the  subtle  mixture  \ 
of  good  and  evil  prepares  suffering  for  human  truth 
and  purity,  there  is  also  suffering  prepared  for  the  wrong- 
doer, by  the  same  mingled  conditions.    As  Tito  kissedj 
Romola  on  their  parting  that  evening,  the  very  strength 

[    191    ] 


ROMOLA 

of  the  thrill  that  moved  his  whole  being  at  the  sense 
that  this  woman,  whose  beauty  it  was  hardly  possible 
to  think  of  as  anything  but  the  necessary  consequence 
of  her  noble  nature,  loved  him  with  all  the  tenderness 
that  spoke  in  her  clear  eyes,  brought  a  strong  reaction 
of  regret  that  he  had  not  kept  himself  free  from  that  first 
deceit  which  had  dragged  him  into  the  danger  of  being 
disgraced  before  her.  There  was  a  spring  of  bitter- 
ness mingled  with  that  fountain  of  sweets.  Would  the 
death  of  Fra  Luca  arrest  it?  He  hoped  it  would. 


CHAPTER   XIII 
THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

IT  was  the  lazy  afternoon  time  on  the  seventh  of 
September,  more  than  two  months  after  the  day  on 
which  Romola  and  Tito  had  confessed  their  love  to  each 
other. 

Tito,  just  descended  into  Nello's  shop,  had  found 
the  barber  stretched  on  the  bench  with  his  cap  over 
his  eyes;  one  leg  was  drawn  up,  and  the  other  had 
slipped  towards  the  ground,  having  apparently  carried 
with  it  a  manuscript  volume  of  verse,  which  lay  with 
its  leaves  crushed.  In  a  corner  sat  Sandro,  playing 
a  game  at  mora  by  himself,  and  watching  the  slow 
reply  of  his  left  fingers  to  the  arithmetical  demands 
of  his  right  with  solemn-eyed  interest. 

Treading  with  the  gentlest  step,  Tito  snatched  up 
the  lute,  and  bending  over  the  barber,  touched  the 
strings  lightly  while  he  sang,  — 

"Quant'  e  bella  pjiovinezza, 
Che  si  fugge  tuttavia! 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto  sia, 
Di  doman  non  c'  h  certezza."  * 

*  "Beauteous  is  life  in  blossom! 
And  it  fleeteth  —  fleeteth  ever; 
Whoso  would  be  joyful  —  let  himf 
There  'a  no  surety  for  the  morrow." 

—  Carnival  Song  by  Lorenzo  de'  Medici. 
[    193   ] 


ROMOLA 

Nello  was  as  easily  awaked  as  a  bird.  The  cap  was 
oflF  his  eyes  in  an  instant,  and  he  started  up. 

"Ah,  my  Apollino!  I  am  somewhat  late  with  my 
siesta  on  this  hot  day,  it  seems.  That  comes  of  not 
going  to  sleep  in  the  natural  way,  but  taking  a  potion  of 
potent  poesy.  Hear  you,  how  I  am  beginning  to  match 
my  words  by  the  initial  letter,  like  a  Trovatore  ?  That 
is  one  of  my  bad  symptoms :  I  am  sorely  afraid  that  the 
good  wine  of  my  understanding  is  going  to  run  off  at  the 
spigot  of  authorship,  and  I  shall  be  left  an  empty  cask 
with  an  odour  of  dregs,  like  many  another  incomparable 
genius  of  my  acquaintance.  What  is  it,  my  Orpheus  ?" 
here  Nello  stretched  out  his  arms  to  their  full  length, 
and  then  brought  them  round  till  his  hands  grasped 
Tito's  curls,  and  drew  them  out  pla^-fully.  "What  is 
it  you  want  of  your  well-tamed  Nello  ?  For  I  perceive 
a  coaxing  sound  in  that  soft  strain  of  yours.  Let  me  see 
the  very  needle's  eye  of  your  desire,  as  the  sublime  poet 
says,  that  I  may  thread  it." 

"  That  is  but  a  tailor's  image  of  your  sublime  poet's," 
saia  Tito,  still  letting  his  fingers  fall  in  a  light  dropping 
way  on  the  strings.  "  But  you  have  divined  the  reason 
of  my  affectionate  impatience  to  see  your  eyes  open.  I 
want  you  to  give  me  an  extra  touch  of  your  art  —  not 
on  my  chin,  no;  but  on  the  zazzera,  which  is  as  tangled 
as  your  Florentine  politics.  You  have  an  adroit  way  of 
inserting  your  comb,  which  flatters  the  skin,  and  stirs 
the  animal  spirits  agreeably  in  that  region;  and  a  little 
of  your  most  delicate  orange  scent  would  not  be  amiss, 
for  I  am  bound  to  the  Scala  Palace,  and  am  to  present 
myself  in  radiant  company.  The  young  Cardinal  Gio- 

[    19*   ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

vanni  de'  Medici  is  to  be  there,  and  he  brings  with  him 
a  certain  young  Bernardo  Dovizi  of  Bibbiena,  whose 
wit  is  so  rapid  that  I  see  no  way  of  outrivalling  it  save 
by  the  scent  of  orange  blossoms." 

Nello  had  already  seized  and  flourished  his  comb,  and 
pushed  Tito  gently  backward  into  the  chair,  wrapping 
the  cloth  round  him. 

"Never  talk  of  rivalry,  bel  giovane  mio:  Bernardo 
Dovizi  is  a  keen  youngster,  who  will  never  carry  a  net 
out  to  catch  the  wind ;  but  he  has  something  of  the  same 
sharp-muzzled  look  as  his  brother  Ser  Piero,  the  weasel 
that  Piero  de'  Medici  keeps  at  his  beck  to  slip  through 
small  holes  for  him.  No!  you  distance  all  rivals,  and 
may  soon  touch  the  sky  with  your  forefinger.  They  tell 
me  you  have  even  carried  enough  honey  with  you  to 
sweeten  the  sour  Messer  Angelo ;  for  he  has  pronounced 
you  less  of  an  ass  than  might  have  been  expected,  con- 
sidering there  is  such  a  good  understanding  between 
you  and  the  Secretary." 

"And  between  ourselves,  Nello  mio,  that  Messer 
Angelo  has  more  genius  and  erudition  than  I  can  find 
in  all  the  other  Florentine  scholars  put  together.  It  may 
answer  very  well  for  them  to  cry  me  up  now,  when 
Poliziano  is  beaten  down  with  grief,  or  illness,  or  some- 
thing else;  I  can  try  a  flight  with  such  a  sparrow-hawk 
as  Pietro  Crinito,  but  for  Poliziano,  he  is  a  large-beaked 
eagle  who  would  swallow  me,  feathers  and  all,  and  not 
feel  any  difference." 

"  I  will  not  contradict  your  modesty  there,  if  you  will 
have  it  so;  but  you  don't  expect  us  clever  Florentines  to 
keep  saying  the  same  things  over  again  every  day  of  our 
[    195   ] 


ROMOLA 

lives,  as  we  must  do  if  we  always  told  the  truth.  We 
^  cry  down  Dante,  and  we  cry  up  Francesco  Cei,  just  for 
the  sake  of  variety;  and  if  we  cry  you  up  as  a  new  Polizi- 
ano,  heaven  has  taken  care  that  it  shall  not  be  quite 
so  great  a  lie  as  it  might  have  been.  And  are  you  not 
a  pattern  of  virtue  in  this  wicked  city  ?  with  your  ears 
double-waxed  against  all  siren  invitations  that  would 
lure  you  from  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  and  the  great  work 
which  is  to  astonish  posterity  ?  " 

"Posterity  in  good  truth,  whom  it  will  probably 
astonish  as  the  universe  does,  by  the  impossibility  of 
seeing  what  was  the  plan  of  it." 

"  Yes,  something  like  that  was  being  prophesied  here 
the  other  day.  Cristoforo  Landino  said  that  the  excel- 
lent Bardo  was  one  of  those  scholars  who  lie  overthrown 
in  their  learning,  like  cavaliers  in  heavy  armour,  and 
then  get  angry  because  they  are  overridden  —  which 
pithy  remark,  it  seems  to  me,  was  not  a  herb  out  of  his 
own  garden;  for  of  all  men,  for  feeding  one  with  an 
empty  spoon  and  gagging  one  with  vain  expectation  by 
long  discourse,  Messer  Cristoforo  is  the  pearl.  Ecco! 
you  are  perfect  now."  Here  Nello  drew  away  the  cloth. 
"  Impossible  to  add  a  grace  more !  But  love  is  not  always 
to  be  fed  on  learning,  eh  ?  I  shall  have  to  dress  the  zaz- 
zera  for  the  betrothal  before  long  —  is  it  not  true  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Tito,  smiling,  "  unless  Messer  Ber- 
nardo should  next  recommend  Bardo  to  require  that 
I  should  yoke  a  lion  and  a  wild  boar  to  the  car  of  the 
Zecca  before  I  can  win  my  Alcestis.  But  I  confess  he 
is  right  in  holding  me  unworthy  of  Romola;  she  is 
a  Pleiad  that  may  grow  dim  by  marrying  any  mortal." 
[    1»6   ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

"  Gnaffe,  your  modesty  is  in  the  right  place  there.  Yet 
fate  seems  to  have  measured  and  chiselled  you  for  the 
niche  that  was  left  empty  by  the  old  man's  son,  who,  by 
the  way,  Cronaca  was  telling  me,  is  now  at  San  Marco. 
Did  you  know  ? " 

A  slight  electric  shock  passed  through  Tito  as  he  rose 
from  the  chair,  but  it  was  not  outwardly  perceptible,  for 
he  immediately  stooped  to  pick  up  the  fallen  book,  and 
busied  his  fingers  with  flattening  the  leaves,  while  he 
said,  — 

"  No ;  he  was  at  Fiesole,  I  thought.  Are  you  sure  he 
is  come  back  to  San  Marco  ? " 

"  Cronaca  is  my  authority,"  said  Nello,  with  a  shrug. 
"I  don't  frequent  that  sanctuary,  but  he  does.  Ah," 
he  added,  taking  the  book  from  Tito's  hands,  "  my  poor 
Nencia  da  Barberino!  It  jars  your  scholarly  feelings  to 
see  the  pages  dog's-eared.  I  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the 
well-rhymed  charms  of  that  rustic  maiden  — '  prettier 
than  the  turnip-flower,'  'with  a  cheek  more  savoury 
than  cheese.'  But  to  get  such  a  well-scented  notion  of 
the  contadina,  one  must  lie  on  velvet  cushions  in  the  Via 
Larga  —  not  go  to  look  at  the  Fierucoloni  stumping 
into  the  Piazza  della  Nunziata  this  evening  after  sun- 
down." 

"  And  pray  who  are  the  Fierucoloni  ? "  said  Tito, 
indifferently,  settling  his  cap. 

"The  contadine  who  came  from  the  mountains  of 

Pistoia,  and  the  Casentino,  and  heaven  knows  where, 

to  keep  their  vigil  in  the  Church  of  the  Nunziata,  and 

sell  their  yarn  and  drietl  mushrooms  at  theFierucola,* 

»  The  little  Fair. 

[    197    ] 


ROMOLA 

as  we  call  it.  They  make  a  queer  show,  with  their  paper 
lanterns,  howling  their  hymns  to  the  Virgin  on  this  eve 
of  her  nativity  —  if  you  had  the  leisure  to  see  them. 
No  ?  —  well,  I  have  had  enough  of  it  myself,  for  there 
is  wild  work  in  the  piazza.  One  may  happen  to  get 
a  stone  or  two  about  one's  ears  or  shins  without  asking 
for  it,  and  I  was  never  fond  of  that  pressing  attention. 
Addio." 

Tito  carried  a  little  uneasiness  with  him  on  his  visit, 
which  ended  earlier  than  he  had  expected,  the  boy- 
cardinal  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  youngest  of  red-hatted 
fathers,  who  has  since  presented  his  broad  dark  cheek 
very  conspicuously  to  posterity  as  Pope  Leo  the  Tenth, 
having  been  detained  at  his  favourite  pastime  of  the 
chase,  and  having  failed  to  appear.  It  still  wanted  half 
an  hour  of  sunset  as  he  left  the  door  of  the  Scala  Palace, 
with  the  intention  of  proceeding  forthwith  to  the  Via 
de'  Bardi ;  but  he  had  not  gone  far  when,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, he  saw  Romola  advancing  towards  him  along 
the  Borgo  Pinti. 

She  wore  a  thick  black  veil  and  black  mantle,  but 
it  was  impossible  to  mistake  her  figure  and  her  walk; 
and  by  her  side  was  a  short  stout  form,  which  he 
recognized  as  that  of  Monna  Brigida,  in  spite  of  the 
unusual  plainness  of  her  attire.  Romola  had  not  been 
bred  up  to  devotional  observances,  and  the  occasions 
on  which  she  took  the  air  elsewhere  than  under  the 
loggia  on  the  roof  of  the  house  were  so  rare  and  so 
nuK'h  dwelt  on  beforehand,  because  of  Bardo's  dislike 
to  be  left  without  her,  that  Tito  felt  sure  there  must 
have  been  some  sudden  and  urgent  ground  for  an 
[    i98   ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

absence  of  which  he  had  heard  nothing  the  day  before. 
She  saw  him  through  her  veil  and  hastened  her  steps. 

"  Romola,  has  an^-thing  happened  ?  "  said  Tito,  turn- 
ing to  walk  by  her  side. 

She  did  not  answer  at  the  first  moment,  and  Monna 
Brigida  broke  in. 

"Ah,  Messer  Tito,  you  do  well  to  turn  round,  for  we 
are  in  haste.  And  is  it  not  a  misfortune  ?  —  we  are 
obliged  to  go  round  by  the  walls  and  turn  up  the  Via  del 
Maglio,  because  of  the  Fair;  for  the  contadine  coming 
in  block  up  the  way  by  the  Nunziata,  which  would  have 
taken  us  to  San  Marco  in  half  the  time." 

Tito's  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  began  to  beat 
violently. 

"  Romola,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  are  you  going 
to  San  Marco  ?  " 

They  were  now  out  of  the  Borgo  Pinti  and  were 
under  the  city  walls,  where  they  had  wide  gardens  on 
their  left  hand,  and  all  was  quiet.  Romola  put  aside  her 
veil  for  the  sake  of  breathing  the  air,  and  he  could  see 
the  subdued  agitation  in  her  face. 

"Yes,  Tito  mio,"  she  said,  looking  directly  at  him 
with  sad  eyes.  "  For  the  first  time  I  am  doing  some- 
thing unknown  to  my  father.  It  comforts  me  that  I  have 
met  you,  for  at  least  I  can  tell  you.  But  if  you  are  going 
to  him,  it  will  be  well  for  you  not  to  say  that  you  met  me. 
He  thinks  I  am  only  gone  to  my  cousin,  because  she 
sent  for  me.  I  left  my  godfather  with  him:  he  knows 
where  I  am  going,  and  why.  You  rememl)cr  that  even- 
ing when  my  brother's  name  was  mentioned  and  my 
father  spoke  of  him  to  you  ? " 

[    199    ] 


ROMOLA 

"  Yes,"  said  Tito,  in  a  low  tone.  There  was  a  strange 
complication  in  his  mental  state.  His  heart  sank  at  the 
probability  that  a  great  change  was  coming  over  his 
prospects,  while  at  the  same  time  his  thoughts  were 
darting  over  a  hundred  details  of  the  course  he  would 
take  when  the  change  had  come;  and  yet  he  returned 
Romola's  gaze  with  a  hungry  sense  that  it  might  be  the 
last  time  she  would  ever  bend  it  on  him  with  full  un- 
questioning confidence. 

"The  cugina  had  heard  that  he  was  come  back,  and 
the  evening  before  —  the  evening  of  San  Giovanni  —  as 
I  afterwards  found,  he  had  been  seen  by  our  good  Maso 
near  the  door  of  our  house;  but  when  Maso  went  to  in- 
quire at  San  Marco,  Dino,  that  is,  my  brother  —  he  was 
christened  Bernardino,  after  our  godfather,  but  now  he 
calls  himself  Fra  Luca  —  had  been  taken  to  the  mon- 
astery at  Fiesole,  because  he  was  ill.  But  this  morning 
a  message  came  to  Maso,  saying  that  he  was  come  back 
to  San  Marco,  and  Maso  went  to  him  there.  He  is  very 
ill,  and  he  has  adjured  me  to  go  and  see  him,  I  cannot 
refuse  it,  though  I  hold  him  guilty;  I  still  remember 
how  I  loved  him  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  before  I  knew 
that  he  would  forsake  my  father.  And  perhaps  he  has 
some  word  of  penitence  to  send  by  me.  It  cost  me  a 
struggle  to  act  in  opposition  to  my  father's  feeling, 
which  I  have  always  held  to  be  just.  I  am  almost  sure 
you  will  think  I  have  chosen  rightly,  Tito,  because  I 
have  noticed  that  your  nature  is  less  rigid  than  mine, 
and  nothing  makes  you  angry:  it  would  cost  you  less 
to  be  forgiving;  though,  if  you  had  seen  your  father 
forsaken  by  one  to  whom  he  had  given  his  chief  love, 
[    200    ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

—  by  one  in  whom  he  had  planted  his  labour  and 
his  hopes,  —  forsaken  when  his  need  was  becoming 
greatest,  —  even  you,  Tito,  would  find  it  hard  to  for- 
give." 

What  could  he  say  ?  He  was  not  equal  to  the  hypo- 
crisy of  telling  Romola  that  such  offences  ought  not 
to  be  pardoned;  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  utter 
any  words  of  dissuasion. 

"You  are  right,  my  Romola;  you  are  always  right, 
except  in  thinking  too  well  of  me." 

There  was  really  some  genuineness  in  those  last 
words  and  Tito  looked  very  beautiful  as  he  uttered 
them,  with  an  unusual  pallor  in  his  face,  and  a  slight 
quivering  of  his  lip.  Romola,  interpreting  all  things 
largely,  like  a  mind  prepossessed  with  high  beliefs, 
had  a  tearful  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at 
him,  touched  with  keen  joy  that  he  felt  so  strongly 
whatever  she  felt.  But  without  pausing  in  her  walk, 
she  said,  — 

"And  now,  Tito,  I  wish  you  to  leave  me,  for  the 
cugina  and  I  shall  be  less  noticed  if  we  enter  the  piazza 
alone." 

"Yes,  it  were  better  you  should  leave  us,"  said 
Monna  Brigida;  "for  to  say  the  truth,  Messer  Tito, 
all  eyes  follow  you,  and  let  Romola  muffle  herself  as 
she  will,  every  one  wants  to  see  what  there  is  under 
her  veil,  for  she  has  that  way  of  walking  like  a  pro- 
cession. Not  that  I  find  fault  with  her  for  it,  only  it 
does  n't  suit  my  steps.  And,  indeed,  I  would  rather 
not  have  us  seen  going  to  San  Marco,  and  that's  why 
I  am  dressed  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  Piagnoni  themselves, 
[   201    ] 


ROMOLA 

and  as  old  as  Sant'  Anna;  for  if  it  had  been  anybody 
but  poor  Dino,  who  ought  to  be  forgiven  if  he's  dying, 
for  what's  the  use  of  having  a  grudge  against  dead 
people  ?  —  make  them  feel  while  they  live,  say  I  —  " 

No  one  made  a  scruple  of  interrupting  Monna  Brigida, 
and  Tito,  having  just  raised  Romola's  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  said,  "I  understand,  I  obey  you,"  now  turned 
away,  lifting  his  cap  —  a  sign  of  reverence  rarely  made 
at  that  time  by  native  Florentines,  and  which  excited 
Bernardo  del  Nero's  contempt  for  Tito  as  a  fawning 
Greek,  while  to  Romola,  who  loved  homage,  it  gave 
him  an  exceptional  grace. 

He  was  half-glad  of  the  dismissal,  half-disposed  to 
cling  to  Romola  to  the  last  moment  in  which  she  would 
love  him  without  suspicion.  For  it  seemed  to  him  cer- 
tain that  this  brother  would  before  all  things  want  to 
know,  and  that  Romola  would  before  all  things  con- 
fide to  him,  what  was  her  father's  position  and  her  own 
after  the  years  which  must  have  brought  so  much  change. 
She  would  tell  him  that  she  was  soon  to  be  publicly  be- 
trothed to  a  young  scholar,  who  was  to  fill  up  the  place 
left  vacant  long  ago  by  a  wandering  son.  He  foresaw 
the  impulse  that  would  prompt  Romola  to  dwell  on  that 
prospect,  and  what  would  follow  on  the  mention  of  the 
future  husband's  name.  Fra  Luca  would  tell  all  he 
knew  and  conjectured,  and  Tito  saw  no  possible  falsity 
by  which  he  could  now  ward  off  the  worst  consequences 
of  his  former  dissimulation.  It  was  all  over  with  his 
prospects  in  Florence.  There  was  Messer  Bernardo 
del  Nero,  who  would  be  delighted  at  seeing  confirmed 
the  wisdom  of  his  advice  about  deferring  the  betrothal 
[  202   ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS 

until  Tito's  character  and  position  had  been  estab- 
lished by  a  longer  residence;  and  the  history  of  the 
young  Greek  professor,  whose  benefactor  was  in  slavery, 
would  be  the  talk  under  every  loggia.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  felt  too  fevered  and  agitated  to  trust  his 
power  of  self-command;  he  gave  up  his  intended  visit 
to  Bardo,  and  walked  up  and  down  under  the  walls 
until  the  yellow  light  in  the  west  had  quite  faded,  when, 
without  any  distinct  purpose,  he  took  the  first  turning, 
which  happened  to  be  the  Via  San  Sebastian©,  leading 
him  directly  towards  the  Piazza  dell'  Annunziata. 

He  was  at  one  of  those  lawless    moments  which  1 
come  to  us  all  if  we  have  no  guide  but  desire,  and  if 
the  pathway  where  desire  leads  us  seems    suddenly 
closed;  he  was  ready  to  follow   any  beckoning  that 
offered  him  an  immediate  purpose. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

THE  moving  crowd  and  the  strange  mixture  of  noises 
that  burst  on  him  at  the  entrance  of  the  piazza 
reminded  Tito  of  what  Nello  had  said  to  him  about 
the  Fierucoloni,  and  he  pushed  his  way  into  the  crowd 
with  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  hooting  and  elbowing 
which  filled  the  empty  moments,  and  dulled  that  cal- 
culation of  the  future  which  had  so  new  a  dreariness 
for  him,  as  he  foresaw  himself  wandering  away  soli- 
tary in  pursuit  of  some  unknown  fortune,  that  his 
thought  had  even  glanced  towards  going  in  search  of 
Baldassarre  after  all. 

At  each  of  the  opposite  inlets  he  saw  people  strug- 
gling into  the  piazza,  while  above  them  paper  lan- 
terns, held  aloft  on  sticks,  were  waving  uncertainly  to 
and  fro.  A  rude  monotonous  chant  made  a  distinctly 
traceable  strand  of  noise,  across  which  screams,  whistles, 
gibing  chants  in  piping  boyish  voices,  the  beating  of 
drums,  and  the  ringing  of  little  bells,  met  each  other  in 
confused  din.  Every  now  and  then  one  of  the  dim  float- 
ing lights  disappeared  with  a  smash  from  a  stone 
launched  more  or  less  vaguely  in  pursuit  of  mischief, 
followed  by  a  scream  and  renewed  shouts.  But  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  whirling  tumult  there  were  groups 
who  were  keeping  this  vigil  of  the  Nativity  of  the 
Virgin  in  a  more  methodical  manner  than  by  fitful 
[   204   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'   FAIR 

stone-throwing  and  gibing.  Certain  ragged  men,  dart- 
ing a  hard  sharp  glance  around  them  while  their  tongues 
rattled  merrily,  were  inviting  country  people  to  game 
with  them  on  fair  and  open-handed  terms;  two  masquer- 
ading figures  on  stilts,  who  had  snatched  lanterns 
from  the  crowd,  were  swaying  the  lights  to  and  fro  in 
meteoric  fa.shion,  as  they  strode  hither  and  thither; 
a  sage  trader  was  doing  a  profitable  business  at  a  small 
covered  stall,  in  hot  berfingozzi,  a  favourite  farinaceous 
delicacy;  one  man  standing  on  a  barrel,  with  his  back 
firmly  planted  against  a  pillar  of  the  loggia  in  front  of 
the  Foundling  Hospital  (Spedale  degl'  Innocenti),  was 
selling  efficacious  pills,  invented  by  a  doctor  of  Salerno, 
warranted  to  prevent  toothache  and  death  by  drown- 
ing; and  not  far  off,  against  another  pillar,  a  tumbler 
was  showing  off  his  tricks  on  a  small  platform;  while 
a  handful  of  'prentices,  despising  the  slack  entertain- 
ment of  guerrilla  stone-throwing,  were  having  a  private 
concentrated  match  of  that  favourite  Florentine  sport 
at  the  narrow  entrance  of  the  Via  de'  Febbrai. 

Tito,  obliged  to  make  his  way  through  chance  open- 
ings in  the  crowd,  found  himself  at  one  moment  close 
to  the  trotting  procession  of  barefooted,  hard-heeled 
contadine,  and  could  see  their  sun-dried,  bronzed  faces, 
and  their  strange,  fragmentary  garb,  dim  with  hered- 
itary dirt,  and  of  obsolete  stuffs  and  fashions,  that 
made  them  look,  in  the  eyes  of  the  city  people,  like 
a  way-worn  ancestry  returning  from  a  pilgrimage  on 
which  they  had  set  out  a  century  ago.  Just  then  it 
was  the  hardy,  scant-feeding  peasant  women  from  the 
mountains  of  Pistoia,  who  were  entering  with  a  year's 
[   205   ] 


ROMOLA 

labour  in  a  moderate  bundle  of  yarn  on  their  backs, 
and  in  their  hearts  that  meagre  hope  of  good  and  that 
wide  dim  fear  of  harm,  which  were  somehow  to  be  cared 
for  by  the  Blessed  Virgin,  whose  miraculous  image, 
painted  by  the  angels,  was  to  have  the  curtain  drawn 
away  from  it  on  this  Eve  of  her  Nativity,  that  its 
potency  might  stream  forth  without  obstruction. 

At  another  moment,  he  was  forced  away  towards  the 
boundary  of  the  piazza,  where  the  more  stationary 
candidates  for  attention  and  small  coin  had  judiciously 
placed  themselves,  in  order  to  be  safe  in  their  rear. 
Among  these  Tito  recognized  his  acquaintance  Bratti, 
who  stood  with  his  back  against  a  pillar,  and  his  mouth 
pursed  up  in  disdainful  silence,  eyeing  every  one  who 
approached  him  with  a  cold  glance  of  superiority,  and 
keeping  his  hand  fast  on  a  serge  covering  which  con- 
cealed the  contents  of  the  basket  slung  before  him. 
Rather  surprised  at  a  deportment  so  unusual  in  an 
anxious  trader,  Tito  went  nearer  and  saw  two  women  go 
up  to  Bratti's  basket  with  a  look  of  curiosity,  where- 
upon the  pedlar  drew  the  covering  tighter,  and  looked 
another  way.  It  was  quite  too  provoking,  and  one  of  the 
women  was  fain  to  ask  what  there  was  in  his  basket. 

"  Before  I  answer  that,  Monna,  I  must  know  whether 
you  mean  to  buy.  I  can't  show  such  wares  as  mine 
in  this  fair  for  every  fly  to  settle  on  and  pay  nothing. 
My  goods  are  a  little  too  choice  for  that.  Besides,  I  've 
only  two  left,  and  I've  no  mind  to  sell  them;  for  with 
the  chances  of  the  pestilence  that  wise  men  talk  of, 
there  is  likelihood  of  their  being  worth  their  weight  in 
gold.  No,  no:  aiidate  con  Dio." 
[   206   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'   FAIR 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 

"  And  what  may  be  the  price  ?  "  said  the  second. 

"Not  within  what  you  are  Hkely  to  have  in  your 
purse,  buona  donna,"  said  Bratti,  in  a  compassion- 
ately supercilious  tone.  "  I  recommend  you  to  trust  in 
Messer  Domeneddio  and  the  saints:  poor  people  can 
do  no  better  for  themselves." 

"Not  so  poor!"  said  the  second  woman,  indignantly, 
drawing  out  her  money-bag.  "Come,  now!  what  do 
you  say  to  a  grosso  ?  " 

"I  say  you  may  get  twenty-one  quattrini  for  it," 
said  Bratti,  coolly;  "but  not  of  me,  for  I  haven't  got 
that  small  change." 

"Come;  two,  then?"  said  the  woman,  getting  exas- 
perated, while  her  companion  looked  at  her  with  some 
envy.    "It  will  hardly  be  above  two,  I  think," 

Afterfurther  bidding,  and  further  mercantile  coquetry, 
Bratti  put  on  an  air  of  concession. 

"Since  you've  set  your  mind  on  it,"  he  said,  slowly 
raising  the  cover,  "I  should  be  loth  to  do  you  a  mis- 
chief; for  Maestro  Gabbadeo  used  to  say,  when  a  wo- 
man sets  her  mind  on  a  thing  and  does  n't  get  it,  she 's 
in  worse  danger  of  the  pestilence  than  before.  Ecco! 
I  have  but  two  left;  and  let  me  tell  you,  the  fellow  to 
them  is  on  the  finger  of  Maestro  Gabbadeo,  who  is 
gone  to  Bologna  —  as  wise  a  doctor  a.s  sits  at  any  door." 

The  precious  objects  were  two  clumsy  iron  rings, 
beaten  into  the  fashion  of  old  Roman  rings,  such  as 
were  sometimes  disinterred.  The  rust  on  them,  and 
the  entirely  hidden  character  of  their  potency,  were 
so  satisfactory  that  the  grossi  were  paid  without  grumb- 
[   207   ] 


ROMOLA 

ling,  and  the  first  woman,  destitute  of  those  handsome 
coins,  succeeded  after  much  show  of  reluctance  on 
Bratti's  part  in  driving  a  bargain  with  some  of  her 
yarn,  and  carried  off  the  remaining  ring  in  triumph. 
Bratti  covered  up  his  basket,  which  was  now  filled 
with  miscellanies,  probably  obtained  under  the  same 
sort  of  circumstances  as  the  yarn,  and,  moving  from 
his  pillar,  came  suddenly  upon  Tito,  who,  if  he  had 
had  time,  would  have  chosen  to  avoid  recognition. 

"By  the  head  of  San  Giovanni,  now,"  said  Bratti, 
drawing  Tito  back  to  the  pillar,  "  this  is  a  piece  of  luck. 
For  I  was  talking  of  you  this  morning,  Messer  Greco; 
but,  I  said,  he  is  mounted  up  among  the  signori  now 
—  and  I  'm  glad  of  it,  for  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  his 
fortune  —  but  I  can  rarely  get  speech  of  him,  for  he 's 
not  to  be  caught  lying  on  the  stones  now  —  not  he ! 
But  it 's  your  luck,  not  mine,  Messer  Greco,  save  and 
except  some  small  trifle  to  satisfy  me  for  my  trouble  in 
the  transaction." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  Bratti,"  said  Tito.  "  Remem- 
ber, I  don't  sharpen  my  wits,  as  you  do,  by  driving  hard 
bargains  for  iron  rings:  you  must  be  plain." 

"  By  the  Holy  'Vangels !  it  was  an  easy  bargain  I  gave 
them.  If  a  Hebrew  gets  thirty-two  per  cent,  I  hope 
a  Christian  may  get  a  little  more.  If  I  had  not  borne  a 
conscience,  I  should  have  got  twice  the  money  and  twice 
the  yarn.  But,  talking  of  rings,  it  is  your  ring  —  that 
very  ring  you  've  got  on  your  finger  —  that  I  could  get 
you  a  purchaser  for;  ay,  and  a  purchaser  with  a  deep 
money-bag." 

"Truly  ?"  said  Tito,  looking  at  his  ring  and  listening. 
[   208   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

**A  Genoese  who  is  going  straight  away  into  Hun- 
gary, as  I  understand.  He  came  and  looked  all  over  my 
shop  to  see  if  I  had  any  old  things  I  did  n't  know  the 
price  of;  I  warrant  you,  he  thought  I  had  a  pumpkin  on 
my  shoulders.  He  had  been  rummaging  all  the  shops  in 
Florence.  And  he  had  a  ring  on  —  not  like  yours,  but 
something  of  the  same  fashion ;  and  as  he  was  talking 
of  rings,  I  said  I  knew  a  fine  young  man,  a  particular 
acquaintance  of  mine,  who  had  a  ring  of  that  sort. 
And  he  said,  'Who  is  he,  pray?  Tell  him  I'll  give  him 
his  price  for  it.'  And  I  thought  of  going  after  you  to 
Nello's  to-morrow;  for  it's  my  opinion  of  you,  Messer 
Greco,  that  you  're  not  one  who  'd  see  the  Arno  run 
broth,  and  stand  by  without  dipping  your  finger." 

Tito  had  lost  no  word  of  what  Bratti  had  said,  yet  his 
mind  had  been  very  busy  all  the  while.  Why  should  he 
keep  the  ring  ?  It  had  been  a  mere  sentiment,  a  mere 
fancy,  that  had  prevented  him  from  selling  it  with  the 
other  gems;  if  he  had  been  wiser  and  had  sold  it,  he 
might  perhaps  have  escaped  that  identification  by  Fra 
Luca.  It  was  true  that  it  had  been  taken  from  Baldas- 
sarre's  finger  and  put  on  his  own  as  soon  as  his  young 
hand  had  grown  to  the  needful  size;  but  there  was  really 
no  valid  good  to  anybody  in  those  superstitious  scruples 
about  inanimate  objects.  The  ring  had  helped  towards 
the  recognition  of  him.  Tito  had  begun  to  dislike  re- 
cognition, which  was  a  claim  from  the  past.  This  for- 
eigner's offer,  if  he  would  really  give  a  good  price,  was 
an  opportunity  for  getting  rid  of  the  ring  without  the 
trouble  of  seeking  a  purchaser. 

"You  speak  with  your  usual  wisdom,  Bratti,"  said 
[   209   ] 


ROMOLA 

Tito.  "  I  have  no  objection  to  hear  what  your  Genoese 
will  offer.  But  when  and  where  shall  I  have  speech  of 
him?" 

"To-morrow,  at  three  hours  after  sunrise,  he  will  be 
at  my  shop,  and  if  your  wits  are  of  that  sharpness  I  have 
always  taken  them  to  be,  Messer  Greco,  you  will  ask 
him  a  heavy  price;  for  he  minds  not  money.  It's  my 
belief  he's  buying  for  somebody  else,  and  not  for  him- 
self —  perhaps  for  some  great  signor." 

"It  is  well,"  said  Tito.  "I  will  be  at  your  shop,  if 
nothing  hinders." 

"And  you  will  doubtless  deal  nobly  by  me  for  old 
acquaintance'  sake,  Messer  Greco,  so  I  will  not  stay  to 
fix  the  small  sum  you  will  give  me  in  token  of  my  service 
in  the  matter.  It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  now  till 
I  get  out  of  the  piazza,  for  a  fair  is  a  dull,  not  to  say 
a  wicked,  thing,  when  one  has  no  more  goods  to  sell." 

Tito  made  a  hasty  sign  of  assent  and  adieu,  and  mov- 
ing away  from  the  pillar,  again  found  himself  pushed 
towards  the  middle  of  the  piazza  and  back  again,  with- 
out the  power  of  determining  his  own  course.  In  this 
zigzag  way  he  was  carried  along  to  the  end  of  the  piazza 
opposite  the  church,  where,  in  a  deep  recess  formed  by 
an  irregularity  in  the  line  of  houses,  an  entertainment 
was  going  forward  which  seemed  to  be  especially  at- 
tractive to  the  crowd.  Loud  bursts  of  laughter  inter- 
rupted a  monologue  which  was  sometimes  slow  and 
oratorical,  at  others  rattling  and  buffoonish.  Here  a  girl 
was  being  pushed  forward  into  the  inner  circle  with 
apparent  reluctance,  and  there  a  loud-laughing  minx 
was  finding  a  way  with  her  own  elbows.  It  was  a 
[   210   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

strange  light  that  was  spread  over  the  piazza.  There 
were  the  pale  stars  breaking  out  above,  and  the  dim 
waving  lanterns  below,  leaving  all  objects  indistinct 
except  when  they  were  seen  close  under  the  fitfully 
moving  light;  but  in  this  recess  there  was  a  stronger 
light,  against  which  the  heads  of  the  encircling  specta- 
tors stood  in  dark  relief  as  Tito  was  gradually  pushed 
towards  them,  while  above  them  rose  the  head  of  a  man 
wearing  a  white  mitre  with  yellow  cabalistic  figures 
upon  it. 

"Behold,  my  children!"  Tito  heard  him  saying, 
"behold  your  opportunity!  neglect  not  the  holy  sacra- 
ment of  matrimony  when  it  can  be  had  for  the  small 
sum  of  a  white  quattrino — thecheapest  matrimony  ever 
offered,  and  dissolved  by  special  bull  beforehand  at 
every  man's  own  will  and  pleasure.  Behold  the  bull!" 
Here  the  speaker  held  up  a  piece  of  parchment  with 
huge  seals  attached  to  it.  "Behold  the  indulgence 
granted  by  his  Holiness  Alexander  the  Sixth,  who,  being 
newly  elected  Pope  for  his  peculiar  piety,  intends  to  re- 
form and  purify  the  Church,  and  wisely  begins  by  abol- 
ishing that  priestly  abuse  which  keeps  too  large  a  share 
of  this  privileged  matrimony  to  the  clergy  and  stints  the 
laity.  Spit  once,  my  sons,  and  pay  a  white  quattrino! 
This  is  the  whole  and  sole  price  of  the  indulgence.  The 
quattrino  is  the  only  difference  the  Holy  Father  allows 
to  be  put  any  longer  between  us  and  the  clergy  —  who 
spit  and  pay  nothing." 

Tito  thought  he  knew  the  voice,  which  had  a  pecul- 
iarly sharp  ring,  but  the  face  was  too  much  in  shadow 
from  the  lights  behind  for  him  to  be  sure  of  the  features. 
[   211   J 


ROMOLA 

Stepping  as  near  as  he  could,  he  saw  within  the  circle 
behind  the  speaker  an  altar-like  table  raised  on  a  small 
platform,  and  covered  with  a  red  drapery  stitched  all 
over  with  yellow  cabalistical  figures.  Half  a  dozen  thin 
tapers  burned  at  the  back  of  this  table,  which  had  a 
conjuring  apparatus  scattered  over  it,  a  large  open  book 
in  the  centre,  and  at  one  of  the  front  angles  a  monkey 
fastened  by  a  cord  to  a  small  ring  and  holding  a  small 
taper,  which  in  his  incessant  fidgety  movements  fell  more 
or  less  aslant,  whilst  an  impish  boy  in  a  white  surplice 
occupied  himself  chiefly  in  cuffing  the  monkey,  and 
adjusting  the  taper.  The  man  in  the  mitre  also  wore 
a  surplice,  and  over  it  a  chasuble  on  which  the  signs  of 
the  zodiac  were  rudely  marked  in  black  upon  a  yellow 
ground.  Tito  was  sure  now  that  he  recognized  the  sharp 
upward-tending  angles  of  the  face  under  the  mitre:  it 
was  that  of  Maestro  Vaiano,  the  mountebank  from 
whom  he  had  rescued  Tessa.  Pretty  little  Tessa !  Per- 
\Jt    '  -  haps  she  too  had  come  in  among  the  troops  of  contadine. 

"  Come,  my  maidens !  This  is  the  time  for  the  pretty 
who  can  have  many  chances,  and  for  the  ill-favoured 
who  have  few.  Matrimony  to  be  had  —  hot,  eaten,  and 
done  with  as  easily  as  herlingozzi!  And  see!"  here  the 
conjuror  held  up  a  cluster  of  tiny  bags.  "To  every 
bride  I  give  a  Breve  with  a  secret  in  it  —  the  secret  alone 
worth  the  money  you  pay  for  the  matrimony.  The  secret 
how  to  —  no,  no,  I  will  not  tell  you  what  the  secret 
is  about,  and  that  makes  it  a  double  secret.  Hang  it 
round  your  neck  if  you  like,  and  never  look  at  it ;  I  don't 
say  tJiat  will  not  be  the  best,  for  then  you  will  see  many 
things  you  don't  expect :  though  if  you  open  it  you  may 
[   212   ] 


•  > 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

break  your  leg,  b  vero,  but  you  will  know  a  secret !  Some- 
thing nobody  knows  but  me !  And  mark  —  I  give  you 
the  Breve,  I  don't  sell  it,  as  many  another  holy  man 
would:  the  quattrino  is  for  the  matrimony,  and  the 
Breve  you  get  for  nothing.  Orsu,  giovanetti,  come  like 
dutiful  sons  of  the  Church  and  buy  the  Indulgence  of 
his  Holiness  Alexander  the  Sixth." 

This  buffoonery  just  fitted  the  taste  of  the  audience; 
the  fierucola  was  but  a  small  occasion,  so  the  townsmen 
might  be  contented  with  jokes  that  were  rather  less  in- 
decent than  those  they  were  accustomed  to  hear  at  every 
carnival,  put  into  easy  rhyme  by  the  Magnifico  and  his 
poetic  satellites;  while  the  women,  over  and  above  any 
relish  of  the  fun,  really  began  to  have  an  itch  for  the 
Brevi.  Several  couples  had  already  gone  through  the 
ceremony,  in  which  the  conjuror's  solemn  gibberish  and 
grimaces  over  the  open  book,  the  antics  of  the  monkey, 
and  even  the  preliminary  spitting,  had  called  forth 
peals  of  laughter;  and  now  a  well-looking,  merry-eyed 
youth  of  seventeen,  in  a  loose  tunic  and  red  cap,  pushed 
forward,  holding  by  the  hand  a  plump  brunette,  whose 
scanty  ragged  dress  displayed  her  round  arms  and  legs 
very  picturesquely. 

"  Fetter  us  without  delay.  Maestro ! "  said  the  youth, 
"for  I  have  got  to  take  my  bride  home  and  paint  her 
under  the  light  of  a  lantern." 

"Ha!  Mariotto,  my  son,  I  commend  your  pious 
observance.  .  .  ."  The  conjuror  was  going  on,  when 
a  loud  chattering  behind  warned  him  that  an  unpleasant 
crisis  had  arisen  with  his  monkey. 

The  temper  of  that  imperfect  acolyth  was  a  little 
[   213   ] 


ROMOLA 

tried  by  the  over-active  discipline  of  his  colleague  in  the 
surplice,  and  a  sudden  cuff,  administered  as  his  taper 
fell  to  a  horizontal  position,  caused  him  to  leap  back 
with  a  violence  that  proved  too  much  for  the  slackened 
knot  by  which  his  cord  was  fastened.  His  first  leap  was 
to  the  other  end  of  the  table,  from  which  position  his 
remonstrances  were  so  threatening  that  the  imp  in  the 
surplice  took  up  a  wand  by  way  of  an  equivalent  thread, 
whereupon  the  monkey  leaped  on  to  the  head  of  a  tall 
woman  in  the  foreground,  dropping  his  taper  by  the 
way,  and  chattering  with  increased  emphasis  from  that 
eminence.  Great  was  the  screaming  and  confusion,  not 
a  few  of  the  spectators  having  a  vague  dread  of  the 
Maestro's  monkey,  as  capable  of  more  hidden  mis- 
chief than  mere  teeth  and  claws  could  inflict;  and 
the  conjuror  himself  was  in  some  alarm  lest  any  harm 
should  happen  to  his  familiar.  In  the  scuffle  to  seize 
the  monkey's  string,  Tito  got  out  of  the  circle,  and,  not 
caring  to  contend  for  his  place  again,  he  allowed  him- 
self to  be  gradually  pushed  towards  the  Church  of  the 
Nunziata,  and  to  enter  amongst  the  worshippers. 

The  brilliant  illumination  within  seemed  to  press 
upon  his  eyes  with  palpable  force  after  the  pale  scat- 
tered lights  and  broad  shadows  of  the  piazza,  and  for 
the  first  minute  or  two  he  could  see  nothing  distinctly. 
That  yellow  splendour  was  in  itself  something  super- 
natural and  heavenly  to  many  of  the  peasant  women, 
for  whom  half  tlie  sky  was  hidden  by  mountains,  and 
who  went  to  bed  in  the  twilight;  and  the  uninterrupted 
chant  from  the  choir  was  repose  to  the  ear  after  the 
hellish  hubbub  of  the  crowd  outside.  Gradually  the 
[   214   ] 


,V' 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

scene  became  clearer,  though  still  there  was  a  thin 
yellow  haze  from  incense  mingling  with  the  breath  of 
the  multitude.  In  a  chapel  on  the  left  hand  of  the  nave, 
wreathed  with  silver  lamps,  was  seen  unveiled  the  mir- 
aculous fresco  of  the  Annunciation,  which,  in  Tito's 
oblique  view  of  it  from  the  right-hand  side  of  the  nave, 
seemed  dark  with  the  excess  of  light  around  it.  The 
whole  area  of  the  great  church  was  filled  with  peasant  yf^  ^  ^ 
women,  some  kneeling,  some  standing;  the  coarse 
bronzed  skins,  and  the  dingy  clothing  of  the  rougher 
dwellers  on  the  mountains,  contrasting  with  the  softer- 
lined  faces  and  white  or  red  head-drapery  of  the  well- 
to-do  dwellers  in  the  valley,  who  were  scattered  in  ir- 
regular groups.  And  spreading  high  and  far  over  the 
walls  and  ceilings  there  was  another  multitude,  also 
pressing  close  against  each  other,  that  they  might  be 
nearer  the  potent  Virgin.  It  was  the  crowd  of  votive 
waxen  images,  the  eflSgies  of  great  personages,  clothed 
in  their  habit  as  they  lived:  Florentines  of  high  name 
in  their  black  silk  lucco,  as  when  they  sat  in  council; 
popes,  emperors,  kings,  cardinals,  and  famous  con- 
dotticri  with  plumed  morion  seated  on  their  chargers; 
all  notable  strangers  who  passed  through  Florence  or 
had  aught  to  do  with  its  affairs  —  Mohammeflans, 
even,  in.  well-tolerated  companionship  with  Christian 
cavaliers;  some  of  them  with  faces  blackened  and  robes 
tattered  by  the  corroding  breath  of  centuries,  others 
fresh  and  bright  in  new  red  mantle  or  steel  corselet, 
the  exact  doubles  of  the  living.  And  wedged  in  with  all 
these  were  detached  arms,  legs,  and  other  members, 
with  only  here  and  there  a  gap  where  some  image  had 
[   215   ] 


ROMOLA 

been  removed  for  public  disgrace,  or  had  fallen  omin- 
ously, as  Lorenzo's  had  done  six  months  before.  It 
was  a  perfect  resurrection-swarm  of  remote  mortals 
and  fragments  of  mortals,  reflecting,  in  their  varying 
degrees  of  freshness,  the  sombre  dinginess  and  sprinkled 
brightness  of  the  crowd  below. 

Tito's  glance  wandered  over  the  wild  multitude 
in  search  of  something.  He  had  already  thought  of 
Tessa,  and  the  white  hoods  suggested  the  possibility 
that  he  might  detect  her  face  under  one  of  them.  It 
was  at  least  a  thought  to  be  courted,  rather  than  the 
vision  of  Romola  looking  at  him  with  changed  eyes. 
But  he  searched  in  vain ;  and  he  was  leaving  the  church, 
weary  of  a  scene  which  had  no  variety,  when,  just 
against  the  doorway,  he  caught  sight  of  Tessa,  only 
two  yards  off  him.  She  was  kneeling  with  her  back 
against  the  wall,  behind  a  group  of  peasant  women, 
who  were  standing  and  looking  for  a  spot  nearer  to  the 
sacred  image.  Her  head  hung  a  little  aside  with  a  look 
of  weariness,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  directed  rather 
absently  towards  an  altar-piece  where  the  Archangel 
Michael  stood  in  his  armour,  with  young  face  and  float- 
ing hair,  amongst  bearded  and  tonsured  saints.  Her 
right  hand,  holding  a  bunch  of  cocoons,  fell  by  her  side 
listlessly,  and  her  round  cheek  was  paled,  either  by  the 
light  or  by  the  weariness  that  was  expressed  in  her 
attitude:  her  lips  were  pressed  poutingly  together,  and 
every  now  and  then  her  eyelids  half -fell:  she  was  a 
large  image  of  a  sweet  sleepy  child.  Tito  felt  an  irre- 
sistible desire  to  go  up  to  her  and  get  her  pretty  trust- 
ing looks  and  prattle:  this  creature  who  was  without 
[   216   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

moral  judgement  that  could  condemn  him,  whose  little 
loving  ignorant  soul  made  a  world  apart,  where  he 
might  feel  in  freedom  from  suspicions  and  exacting 
demands,  had  a  new  attraction  for  him  now.  She 
seemed  a  refuge  from  the  threatened  isolation  that 
would  come  with  disgrace.  He  glanced  cautiously  I 
round,  to  assure  himself  that  Monna  Ghita  was  not 
near,  and  then,  slipping  quietly  to  her  side,  kneeled 
on  one  knee,  and  said,  in  the  softest  voice,  "Tessa!" 

She  hardly  started,  any  more  than  she  would  have 
started  at  a  soft  breeze  that  fanned  her  gently  when  she 
was  needing  it.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw  Tito's  face 
close  to  her:  it  was  very  much  more  beautiful  than 
the  Archangel  Michael's,  who  was  so  mighty  and  so  good 
that  he  lived  with  the  Madonna  and  all  the  saints  and 
was  prayed  to  along  with  them.  She  smiled  in  happy 
silence,  for  that  nearness  of  Tito  quite  filled  her  mind. 

"My  little  Tessa!  you  look  very  tired.  How  long 
have  you  been  kneeling  here  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  be  collecting  her  thoughts  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  and  at  last  she  said,  — 

"  I  'm  very  hungry." 

"Come,  then;- come  with  me." 

He  lifted  her  from  her  knees,  and  led  her  out  under 
the  cloisters  surrounding  the  atrium,  which  were  then 
open,  and  not  yet  adorned  with  the  frescoes  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto. 

"How  is  it  you  are  all  by  yourself,  and  so  hungry, 
Tessa?" 

"The  Madre  is  ill;  she  has  very  bad  pains  in  her 
legs,  and  sent  me  to  bring  these  cocoons  to  the  Santis- 
[   217   ] 


ROMOLA 

sima  Nunziata,  because  they're  so  wonderful;  see!** 

—  she  held  up  the  bunch  of  cocoons,  which  were  ar- 
ranged with  fortuitous  regularity  on  a  stem;  "and 
she  had  kept  them  to  bring  them  herself,  but  she 
could  n't,  and  so  she  sent  me  because  she  thinks  the 
Holy  Madonna  may  take  away  her  pains;  and  some- 
body took  my  bag  with  the  bread  and  chestnuts  in 
it,  and  the  people  pushed  me  back,  and  I  was  so  fright- 
ened coming  in  the  crowd,  and  I  could  n't  get  anywhere 
near  the  Holy  Madonna,  to  give  the  cocoons  to  the 
Padre,  but  I  must  —  oh,  I  must." 

"  Yes,  my  little  Tessa,  you  shall  take  them ;  but  first 
come  and  let  me  give  you  some  berlingozzi.  There 
are  some  to  be  had  not  far  off." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  said  Tessa,  a  little 
bewildered.  "I  thought  you  would  never  come  to  me 
again,  because  you  never  came  to  the  Mercato  for  milk 
any  more.  I  set  myself  Aves  to  say,  to  see  if  they  would 
bring  you  back,  but  I  left  off,  because  they  did  n't." 

"You  see  I  come  when  you  want  some  one  to  take 
care  of  you,  Tessa.  Perhaps  the  Aves  fetched  me,  only 
it  took  them  a  long  while.  But  what  shall  you  do  if 
you  are  here  all  alone  ?  Where  shall  you  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  stay  and  sleep  in  the  church  —  a  great 
many  of  them  do  —  in  the  church  and  all  about  here 

—  I  did  once  when  I  came  with  my  mother;  and  the 
pafrigno  is  coming  with  the  mules  in  the  morning." 

They  were  out  in  the  piazza  now,  where  the  crowd 
was  rather  less  riotous  than  before,  and  the  lights 
were  fewer,  the  stream  of  pilgrims  having  ceased. 
Tessa  clung  fast  to  Tito's  arm   in    satisfied  silence, 

[   218   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

while  he  led  her  towards  the  stall  where  he  remem- 
bered seeing  the  eatables.  Their  way  was  the  easier 
because  there  was  just  now  a  great  rush  towards  the 
middle  of  the  piazza,  where  the  masqued  figures  on 
stilts  had  found  space  to  execute  a  dance.  It  was  very 
pretty  to  see  the  guileless  thing  giving  her  cocoons 
into  Tito's  hand,  and  then  eating  her  berlingozzi  with 
the  relish  of  a  hungry  child.  Tito  had  really  come  to 
take  care  of  her,  as  he  did  before,  and  that  wonderful 
happiness  of  being  with  him  had  begun  again  for  her. 
Her  hunger  was  soon  appeased,  all  the  sooner  for  the 
new  stimulus  of  happiness  that  had  roused  her  from 
her  languor,  and,  as  they  turned  away  from  the  stall, 
she  said  nothing  about  going  into  the  church  again,  but 
looked  round  as  if  the  sights  in  the  piazza  were  not 
without  attraction  to  her  now  she  was  safe  under  Tito's 
arm. 

"How  can  they  do  that?"  she  exclaimed,  looking 
up  at  the  dancers  on  stilts.  Then,  after  a  minute's 
silence,  "  Do  you  think  Saint  Christopher  helps  them  ?** 

"Perhaps.  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Tessa?" 
said  Tito,  slipping  his  right  arm  round  her,  and  look- 
ing down  at  her  fondly. 

"Because  Saint  Christopher  is  so  very  tall;  and  he 
is  very  good:  if  anybody  looks  at  him  he  takes  care 
of  them  all  day.  He  is  on  the  wall  of  the  church  — 
too  tall  to  stand  up  there  —  but  I  saw  him  walking 
through  the  streets  one  San  Giovanni,  carrying  the 
little  Gesu." 

"You  pretty  pigeon!  Do  you  think  anybody  could 
help  taking  care  of  you,  if  you  looked  at  them  ?" 

[   219   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Shall  you  always  come  and  take  care  of  me?" 
said  Tessa,  turning  her  face  up  to  him,  as  he  crushed 
her  cheek  with  his  left  hand.  "And  shall  you  always  be 
a  long  while  first  ?  " 

Tito  was  conscious  that  some  bystanders  were  laugh- 
ing at  them,  and  though  the  licence  of  street  fun,  among 
artists  and  young  men  of  the  wealthier  sort  as  well  as 
among  the  populace,  made  few  adventures  exceptional, 
still  less  disreputable,  he  chose  to  move  away  towards 
the  end  of  the  piazza. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  come  again  to  you  very  soon, 
Tessa,"  he  answered,  rather  dreamily,  when  they  had 
moved  away.  He  was  thinking  that  when  all  the  rest 
had  turned  their  backs  upon  him,  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  have  this  little  creature  adoring  him  and  nestling 
against  him.  The  absence  of  presumptuous  self-con- 
ceit in  Tito  made  him  feel  all  the  more  defenceless 
under  prospective  obloquy:  he  needed  soft  looks  and 
caresses  too  much  ever  to  be  impudent. 

"In  the  Mercato?"  said  Tessa.  "Not  to-morrow 
morning,  because  the  patrigno  will  be  there,  and  he  is 
so  cross.  Oh!  but  you  have  money,  and  he  will  not  be 
cross  if  you  buy  some  salad.  And  there  are  some  chest- 
nuts.   Do  you  like  chestnuts?" 

He  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  look  down  at  her 
with  a  dreamy  gentleness,  and  Tessa  felt  herself  in  a 
state  of  delicious  wonder;  everything  seemed  as  new  as 
if  she  were  being  carried  on  a  chariot  of  clouds. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  she  exclaimed  again  presently. 
"There  is  a  holy  father  like  the  Bishop  I  saw  at 
Prato." 

[   220   1 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

Tito  looked  up  too,  and  saw  that  he  had  unconsciously 
advanced  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  conjuror,  Maestro 
Vaiano,  who  for  the  moment  was  forsaken  by  the 
crowd.  His  face  was  turned  away  from  them,  and  he 
was  occupied  with  the  apparatus  on  his  altar  or  table, 
preparing  a  new  diversion  by  the  time  the  interest  in 
the  dancing  should  be  exhausted.  The  monkey  was 
imprisoned  under  the  red  cloth,  out  of  reach  of  mischief, 
and  the  youngster  in  the  white  surplice  was  holding 
a  sort  of  dish  or  salver,  from  which  his  master  was 
taking  some  ingredient.  The  altar-like  table,  with  its 
gorgeous  cloth,  the  row  of  tapers,  the  sham  episcopal 
costume,  the  surpliced  attendant,  and  even  the  move- 
ments of  the  mitred  figure,  as  he  alternately  bent  his 
head  and  then  raised  something  before  the  lights,  were 
a  suflBciently  near  parody  of  sacred  things  to  rouse 
poor  little  Tessa's  veneration ;  and  there  was  some  ad- 
ditional awe  produced  by  the  mystery  of  their  ap- 
parition in  this  spot,  for  when  she  had  seen  an  altar 
in  the  street  before,  it  had  been  on  Corpus  Christi  Day, 
and  there  had  been  a  procession  to  account  for  it. 
She  crossed  herself  and  looked  up  at  Tito,  but  then,  as 
if  she  had  had  time  for  reflection,  said,  "  It  is  because 
of  the  Nativita." 

Meanwhile  Vaiano  had  turned  round,  raising  his 
hands  to  his  mitre  with  the  intention  of  changing  his 
dress,  when  his  quick  eye  recognized  Tito  and  Tessa, 
who  were  both  looking  at  him,  their  faces  being  shone 
upon  by  the  light  of  his  tapers,  while  his  own  was  in 
shadow. 

"Ha,  my  children!"  he  said,  instantly,  stretching  out 
[   221    ] 


ROMOLA 

his  hands  in  a  benedictory  attitude,  "  you  are  come  to  be 
married.  I  commend  your  penitence  —  the  blessing 
of  Holy  Church  can  never  come  too  late." 

But  whilst  he  was  speaking,  he  had  taken  in  the  whole 
meaning  of  Tessa's  attitude  and  expression,  and  he  dis- 
cerned an  opportunity  for  a  new  kind  of  joke  which 
required  him  to  be  cautious  and  solemn. 

"  Should  you  like  to  be  married  to  me,  Tessa  ?  "  said 
Tito,  softly,  half-enjoying  the  comedy,  as  he  saw  the 
pretty  childish  seriousness  on  her  face,  half-prompted 
by  hazy  previsions  which  belonged  to  the  intoxication 
of  despair. 

He  felt  her  vibrating  before  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
said,  timidly,  "Will  you  let  me?" 

He  answered  only  by  a  smile,  and  by  leading  her  for- 
ward in  front  of  the  cerretano,  wno,  seeing  an  excellent 
jest  in  Tessa's  evident  delusion,  assumed  a  surpassing 
sacerdotal  solemnity,  and  went  through  the  mimic  cere- 
mony with  a  liberal  expenditure  of  lingua  furbesca,  or 
thieves'  Latin.  But  some  symptoms  of  a  new  move- 
ment in  the  crowd  urged  him  to  bring  it  to  a  speedy  con- 
clusion and  dismiss  them  with  hands  outstretched  in  a 
benedictory  attitude  over  their  kneeling  figures.  Tito, 
disposed  always  to  cultivate  good  will,  though  it  might 
v/  be  the  least  select,  put  a  piece  of  four  grossi  into  his 

hand  as  he  moved  away,  and  was  thanked  by  a  look 
which,  the  conjuror  felt  sure,  conveyed  a  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  whole  affair. 

But  Tito  himself  was  very  far  from  that  understanding, 
and  did  not,  in  fact,  know  whether,  the  next  moment, 
he  should  tell  Tessa  of  the  joke  and  laugh  at  her  for 
[   222   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

a  little  goose,  or  whether  he  should  let  her  delusion  last, 
and  see  what  would  come  of  it — see  what  she  would 
say  and  do  next. 

"Then  you  will  not  go  away  from  me  again,"  said 
Tessa,  after  they  had  walked  a  few  steps,  "  and  you  will 
take  me  to  where  you  live,"  She  spoke  meditatively, 
and  not  in  a  questioning  tone.  But  presently  she  added, 
**  I  must  go  back  once  to  the  Madre,  though,  to  tell  her 
I  brought  the  cocoons,  and  that  I  am  married,  and 
shall  not  go  back  again." 

Tito  felt  the  necessity  of  speaking  now;  and  in  the 
rapid  thought  prompted  by  that  necessity,  he  saw  that 
by  undeceiving  Tessa  he  should  be  robbing  himself  of 
some  at  least  of  that  pretty  trustfulness  which  might, 
by  and  by,  be  his  only  haven  from  contempt.  It  would 
spoil  Tessa  tr  make  her  the  least  particle  wiser  or  more 
suspicious. 

"Yes,  my  little  Tessa,"  he  said,  caressingly,  "you 
must  go  back  to  the  Madre;  but  you  must  not  tell  her 
you  are  married  —  you  must  keep  that  a  secret  from 
everybody;  else  some  very  great  harm  would  happen 
to  me,  and  you  would  never  see  me  again." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  fear  in  her  face. 

"You  must  go  back  and  feed  your  goats  and  mules, 
and  do  just  as  you  have  always  done  before,  and  say  no 
word  to  any  one  about  me." 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  fell  a  little. 

"And  then,  perhaps,  I  shall  come  and  take  care  of 
you  again  when  you  want  me,  as  I  did  before.  But  you 
must  do  just  what  I  tell  you,  else  you  will  not  see  me 
again." 

[   223   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Yes,  I  will,  I  will,"  she  said,  in  a  loud  whisper, 
frightened  at  that  blank  prospect. 

They  were  silent  a  little  while;  and  then  Tessa, 
looking  at  her  hand,  said, — 

"The  Madre  wears  a  betrothal  ring.  She  went  to 
church  and  had  it  put  on,  and  then  after  that,  another 
day,  she  was  married.  And  so  did  the  Cousin  Nannina. 
But  then  she  married  Gollo,"  added  the  poor  little  thing, 
entangled  in  the  difficult  comparison  between  her  own 
case  and  others  within  her  experience. 

"  But  you  must  not  wear  a  betrothal  ring,  my  Tessa, 
because  no  one  must  know  you  are  married,"  said  Tito, 
feeling  some  insistence  necessary.  "And  the  huona 
fortuna  that  I  gave  you  did  just  as  well  for  betrothal. 
Some  people  are  betrothed  with  rings  and  some  are  not.'* 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  they  would  see  the  ring,"  said  Tessa, 
trying  to  convince  herself  that  a  thing  she  would  like 
very  much  was  really  not  good  for  her. 

They  were  now  near  the  entrance  of  the  church  again, 
and  she  remembered  her  cocoons  which  were  still  in 
Tito's  hand. 

"  Ah,  you  must  give  me  the  hoto"  she  said ;  "  and  we 
must  go  in,  and  I  must  take  it  to  the  Padre,  and  I  must 
tell  the  rest  of  my  beads,  because  I  was  too  tired  before." 

"Yes,  you  must  go  in,  Tessa;  but  I  will  not  go  in.  I 
must  leave  you  now,"  said  Tito,  too  feverish  and  weary 
to  re-enter  that  stifling  heat,  and  feeling  that  this  was 
the  least  difficult  way  of  parting  with  her. 

"And  not  come  back?  Oh,  where  do  you  go?" 
Tessa's  mind  had  never  formed  an  image  of  his  where- 
about or  his  doings  when  she  did  not  see  him:  he  had 
[   224   ] 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR 

vanished,  and  her  thought,  instead  of  following  him, 
had  stayed  in  the  same  spot  where  he  was  with  her. 

"I  shall  come  back  sometime,  Tessa,"  said  Tito, 
taking  her  under  the  cloisters  to  the  door  of  the  church. 
"  You  must  not  cry  —  you  must  go  to  sleep,  when  you 
have  said  your  beads.  And  here  is  money  to  buy  your 
breakfast.  Now  kiss  me,  and  look  happy,  else  I  shall 
not  come  again." 

She  made  a  great  effort  over  herself  as  she  put  up 
her  lips  to  kiss  him,  and  submitted  to  be  gently  turned 
round,  with  her  face  towards  the  door  of  the  church. 
Tito  saw  her  enter;  and  then  with  a  shrug  at  his  own 
resolution,  leaned  against  a  pillar,  took  off  his  cap, 
rubbed  his  hair  backward,  and  wondered  where  Romola 
was  now,  and  what  she  was  thinking  of  him.  Poor  little  \ 
Tessa  had  disappeared  behind  the  curtain  among  the 
crowd  of  peasants;  but  the  love  which  formed  one 
web  with  all  his  worldly  hopes,  with  the  ambitions  and 
pleasures  that  must  make  the  solid  part  of  his  days 
—  the  love  that  was  identified  with  his  larger  self  —  was 
not  to  be  banished  from  his  consciousness.  Even  to  the 
man  who  presents  the  most  elastic  resistance  to  what- 
ever is  unpleasant,  there  will  come  moments  when  the 
pressure  from  without  is  too  strong  for  him,  and  he 
must  feel  the  smart  and  the  bruise  in  spite  of  himself. 
Such  a  moment  had  come  to  Tito.  There  was  no  pos- 
sible attitude  of  mind,  no  scheme  of  action  by  which 
the  uprooting  of  all  his  newly-planted  hopes  could  be  \ 
made  otherwise  than  painful. 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

WHEN  Romola  arrived  at  the  entrance  of  San 
Marco  she  found  one  of  the  Frati  waiting  there 
in  expectation  of  her  arrival.  Monna  Brigida  retired 
into  the  adjoining  church,  and  Romola  was  conducted 
to  the  door  of  the  chapter-house  in  the  outer  cloister, 
whither  the  invalid  had  been  conveyed;  no  woman 
being  allowed  admission  beyond  this  precinct. 

When  the  door  opened,  the  subdued  external  light 
blending  with  that  of  two  tapers  placed  behind  a  truckle- 
bed  showed  the  emaciated  face  of  Fra  Luca,  with  the 
tonsured  crown  of  golden  hair  above  it,  and  with  deep- 
sunken  hazel  eyes  fixed  on  a  small  crucifix  which  he 
held  before  him.  He  was  propped  up  into  nearly  a  sit- 
ting posture;  and  Romola  was  just  conscious,  as  she 
threw  aside  her  veil,  that  there  was  another  monk  stand- 
ing by  the  bed,  with  the  black  cowl  drawn  over  his  head, 
and  that  he  moved  towards  the  door  as  she  entered; 
just  conscious  that  in  the  background  there  was  a  cruci- 
fied form  rising  high  and  pale  on  the  frescoed  wall,  and 
pale  faces  of  sorrow  looking  out  from  it  below. 

The  next  moment  her  eyes  met  Fra  Luca's  as  they 
looked  up  at  her  from  the  crucifix,  and  she  was  ab- 
sorbed in  that  pang  of  recognition  which  identified  this 
monkish  emaciated  form  with  the  image  of  her  fair 
young  brother. 

[   226   ] 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

"Dino!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  like  a  low  cry  of  pain. 
But  she  did  not  bend  towards  him ;  she  held  herself  erect, 
and  paused  at  two  yards'  distance  from  him.  There 
was  an  unconquerable  repulsion  for  her  in  that  monk- 
ish aspect;  it  seemed  to  her  the  brand  of  the  dastardly 
undutifulness  which  had  left  her  father  desolate  —  of 
the  grovelling  superstition  which  could  give  such  un- 
dutifulness the  name  of  piety.  Her  father,  whose  proud 
sincerity  and  simplicity  of  life  had  made  him  one  of  the 
few  frank  pagans  of  his  time,  had  brought  her  up  with 
a  silent  ignoring  of  any  claims  the  Church  could  have  to 
regulate  the  belief  and  action  of  beings  with  a  cultivated 
reason.  The  Church,  in  her  mind,  belonged  to  that 
actual  life  of  the  mixed  multitude  from  which  they  had 
always  lived  apart,  and  she  had  no  ideas  that  could 
render  her  brother's  course  an  object  of  any  other 
feeling  than  incurious,  indignant  contempt.  Yet  the 
lovingness  of  Romola's  soul  had  clung  to  that  image 
in  the  past,  and  while  she  stood  rigidly  aloof,  there 
was  a  yearning  search  in  her  eyes  for  something  too 
faintly  discernible. 

But  there  was  no  corresponding  emotion  in  the  face 
of  the  monk.  He  looked  at  the  little  sister,  returned  to 
him  in  her  full  womanly  beauty,  with  the  far-off  gaze 
of  a  revisiting  spirit. 

"My  sister!"  he  said,  with  a  feeble  and  interrupted 
but  yet  distinct  utterance,  "it  is  well  thou  hast  not 
longer  delayed  to  come,  for  I  have  a  message  to  deliver 
to  thee,  and  my  time  is  short." 

Romola  took  a  step  nearer:  the  message,  she  thought, 
would  be  one  of  affectionate  penitence  to  her  father, 
[   227   ] 


ROMOLA 

and  her  heart  began  to  open.  Nothing  could  wipe  out 
the  long  years  of  desertion ;  but  the  culprit,  looking  back 
on  those  years  with  the  sense  of  irremediable  wrong 
committed,  would  call  forth  pity.  Now,  at  the  last, 
there  would  be  understanding  and  forgiveness.  Dino 
would  pour  out  some  natural  filial  feeling ;  he  would  ask 
questions  about  his  father's  blindness  —  how  rapidly  it 
had  come  on  ?  how  the  long  dark  days  had  been  filled  ? 
what  the  life  was  now  in  the  home  where  he  himself 
had  been  nourished  ?  —  and  the  last  message  from  the 
dying  lips  would  be  one  of  tenderness  and  regret. 

"Romola,"  Fra  Luca  began,  "I  have  had  a  vision 
concerning  thee.  Thrice  I  have  had  it  in  the  last  two 
months :  each  time  it  has  been  clearer.  Therefore  I  came 
from  Fiesole,  deeming  it  a  message  from  heaven  that 
I  was  bound  to  deliver.  And  I  gather  a  promise  of 
mercy  to  thee  in  this,  that  my  breath  is  preserved  in 
order  to  —  " 

The  difficult  breathing  which  continually  interrupted 
him  would  not  let  him  finish  the  sentence. 

Romola  had  felt  her  heart  chilling  again.  It  was 
a  vision,  then,  this  message  —  one  of  those  visions  she 
had  so  often  heard  her  father  allude  to  with  bitterness. 
Her  indignation  rushed  to  her  lips. 

"Dino,  I  thought  you  had  some  words  to  send 
to  my  father.  You  forsook  him  when  his  sight  was 
failing;  you  made  his  life  very  desolate.  Have  you 
never  cared  about  that  ?  never  repented  ?  ^Vhat  is  this 
religion  of  yours,  that  places  visions  before  natural 
duties?" 

The  deep-sunken  hazel  eyes  turned  slowly  towards 
[   228   ] 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

her,  and  rested  upon  her  in  silence  for  some  moments, 
as  if  he  were  meditating  whether  he  should  answer 
her. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last;  speaking  as  before,  in  a  low 
passionless  tone,  as  of  some  spirit  not  human,  speak- 
ing through  dying  human  organs.  "No;  I  have  never 
repented  fleeing  from  the  stifling  poison-breath  of  sin 
that  was  hot  and  thick  around  me,  and  threatened  to 
steal  over  my  senses  like  besotting  wine.  My  father 
could  not  hear  the  voice  that  called  me  night  and  day; 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  demon-tempters  that  tried  to 
drag  me  back  from  following  it.  My  father  has  lived 
amidst  human  sin  and  misery  without  believing  in 
them:  he  has  been  like  one  busy  picking  shining  stones 
in  a  mine,  while  there  was  a  world  dying  of  plague 
above  him.  I  spoke,  but  he  listened  with  scorn.  I  told 
him  the  studies  he  wished  me  to  live  for  were  either 
childish  trifling  —  dead  toys  —  or  else  they  must  be 
made  warm  and  living  by  pulses  that  beat  to  worldly 
ambitions  and  fleshly  lusts,  for  worldly  ambitions  and 
fleshly  lusts  made  all  the  substance  of  the  poetry  and 
history  he  wanted  me  to  bend  my  eyes  on  continually." 

"  Has  not  my  father  led  a  pure  and  noble  life,  then  ?  " 
Romola  burst  forth,  unable  to  hear  in  silence  this 
implied  accusation  against  her  father.  "He  has  sought 
no  worldly  honours;  he  has  been  truthful;  he  has  denied 
himself  all  luxuries;  he  has  lived  like  one  of  the  an- 
cient sages.  He  never  wished  you  to  live  for  worldly 
ambitions  and  fleshly  lusts;  he  wished  you  to  live  as 
he  himself  has  done,  according  to  the  purest  maxims 
of  philosophy,  in  which  he  brought  you  up." 
[    229    ] 


ROMOLA 

Romola  spoke  partly  by  rote,  as  all  ardent  and 
sympathetic  young  creatures  do;  but  she  spoke  with 
intense  belief.  The  pink  flush  was  in  her  face,  and 
she  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  Her  brother  was 
again  slow  to  answer;  looking  at  her  passionate  face 
with  strange  passionless  eyes. 

"  What  were  the  maxims  of  philosophy  to  me  ?  They 
told  me  to  be  strong,  when  I  felt  myself  weak;  when 
I  was  ready,  like  the  blessed  Saint  Benedict,  to  roll 
myself  among  thorns,  and  court  smarting  wounds  as 
a  deliverance  from  temptation.  For  the  Divine  love 
had  sought  me,  and  penetrated  me,  and  created  a  great 
need  in  me;  like  a  seed  that  wants  room  to  grow.  I  had 
been  brought  up  in  carelessness  of  the  true  faith; 
I  had  not  studied  the  doctrines  of  our  religion;  but 
it  seemed  to  take  possession  of  me  like  a  rising  flood, 
I  felt  that  there  was  a  life  of  perfect  love  and  purity  for 
the  soul;  in  which  there  would  be  no  uneasy  hunger 
after  pleasure,  no  tormenting  questions,  no  fear  of  suf- 
fering. Before  I  knew  the  history  of  the  saints,  I  had 
a  foreshadowing  of  their  ecstasy.  For  the  same  truth 
had  penetrated  even  into  pagan  philosophy:  that  it  is 
a  bliss  within  the  reach  of  man  to  die  to  mortal  needs, 
and  live  in  the  life  of  God  as  the  Unseen  Perfectness. 
But  to  attain  that  I  must  forsake  the  world;  I  must 
have  no  affection,  no  hope,  wedding  me  to  that  which 
passeth  away;  I  must  live  with  my  fellow  beings  only 
as  human  souls  related  to  the  eternal  unseenlife.  That 
need  was  urging  me  continually;  it  came  over  me  in 
visions  when  my  mind  fell  away  weary  from  the  vain 
words  which  record  the  passions  of  dead  men;  it  came 
[   230   ] 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

over  me  after  I  had  been  tempted  into  sin  and  had 
turned  away  with  loathing  from  the  scent  of  the  emptied 
cup.  And  in  visions  I  saw  the  meaning  of  the  Crucifix." 

He  paused,  breathing  hard  for  a  minute  or  two: 
but  Romola  was  not  prompted  to  speak  again.  It  was 
useless  for  her  mind  to  attempt  any  contact  with  the 
mind  of  this  unearthly  brother;  as  useless  as  for  her 
hand  to  try  and  grasp  a  shadow.  When  he  spoke  again 
his  heaving  chest  was  quieter. 

"I  felt  whom  I  must  follow:  but  I  saw  that  even 
among  the  servants  of  the  Cross  who  professed  to  have 
renounced  the  world,  my  soul  would  be  stifled  with 
the  fumes  of  hypocrisy  and  lust  and  pride.  God  had 
not  chosen  me  as  he  chose  Saint  Dominic  and  Saint 
Francis,  to  wrestle  with  evil  in  the  Church  and  in  the 
world.  He  called  upon  me  to  flee:  I  took  the  sacred 
vows  and  I  fled  —  fled  to  lands  where  danger  and  scorn 
and  want  bore  me  continually,  like  angels,  to  repose 
on  the  bosom  of  God.  I  have  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit, 
I  have  ministered  to  pilgrims;  but  my  task  has  been 
short:  the  veil  has  worn  very  thin  that  divides  me  from 
my  everlasting  rest.  I  came  back  to  Florence  that  — " 

"  Dino,  you  did  want  to  know  if  my  father  was 
alive,"  interrupted  Romola,  the  picture  of  that  suffering 
life  touching  her  again  with  the  desire  for  union  and 
forgiveness. 

" —  that  before  I  died  I  might  urge  others  of  our 
brethren  to  study  the  Eastern  tongues,  as  I  had  not 
done,  and  go  out  to  greater  ends  than  I  did ;  and  I  find 
them  already  bent  on  the  work.  And  since  I  came, 
Romola,  I  have  felt  that  I  was  sent  partly  to  thee  — 
[   231    ] 


ROMOLA 

not  to  renew  the  bonds  of  earthly  affection,  but  to  de- 
Hrer  the  heavenly  warning  conveyed  in  a  vision.  For 
I  have  had  that  vision  thrice.  And  through  all  the  years 
since  first  the  Divine  voice  called  me,  while  I  was  yet 
in  the  world,  I  have  been  taught  and  guided  by  visions. 
For  in  the  painful  linking  together  of  our  waking 
thoughts  we  can  never  be  sure  that  we  have  not  mingled 
our  own  error  with  the  light  we  have  prayed  for;  but 
in  visions  and  dreams  we  are  passive,  and  our  souls  are 
as  an  instrument  in  the  Divine  hand.  Therefore  listen, 
and  speak  not  again  —  for  the  time  is  short." 

Romola's  mind  recoiled  strongly  from  listening  to  this 
vision.  Her  indignation  had  subsided,  but  it  was  only 
because  she  had  felt  the  distance  between  her  brother 
and  herself  widening.  But  while  Fra  Luca  was  speak- 
ing, the  figure  of  another  monk  had  entered,  and  again 
stood  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  the  cowl  drawn  over 
his  head. 

"Kneel,  my  daughter,  for  the  Angel  of  Death  is 
present,  and  waits  while  the  message  of  heaven  is  de- 
livered :  bend  thy  pride  before  it  is  bent  for  thee  by  a  yoke 
of  iron,"  said  a  strong  rich  voice,  startlingly  in  contrast 
with  Fra  Luca's. 

The  tone  was  not  that  of  imperious  command,  but 
of  quiet  self-possession  and  assurance  of  the  right, 
blended  with  benignity.  Romola,  vibrating  to  the 
sound,  looked  round  at  the  figure  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  bed.  His  face  was  hardly  discernible  under  the 
shadow  of  the  cowl,  and  her  eyes  fell  at  once  on  his 
hands,  which  were  folded  across  his  breast  and  lay 
in  relief  on  the  edge  of  his  black  mantle.  They  had 
[   232   J 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

a  marked  physiognomy  which  enforced  the  influence  of 
the  voice:  they  were  very  beautiful  and  almost  of  trans- 
parent delicacy.  Roraola's  dis|)osition  to  rebel  against 
command,  doubly  active  in  the  presence  of  monks, 
whom  she  had  been  taught  to  despise,  would  have 
fixed  itself  on  any  repulsive  detail  as  a  point  of  support. 
But  the  face  was  hidden,  and  the  hands  seemed  to 
have  an  appeal  in  them  against  all  hardness.  The  next 
moment  the  right  hand  took  the  crucifix  to  relieve  the 
fatigued  grasp  of  Fra  Luca,  and  the  left  touched  his 
lips  with  a  wet  sponge  which  lay  near.  In  the  act  of 
bending,  the  cowl  was  pushed  back,  and  the  features 
of  the  monk  had  the  full  light  of  the  tapers  on  them. 
They  were  very  marked  features,  such  as  lend  them- 
selves to  popular  description.  There  was  the  high  arched 
nose,  the  prominent  under-lip,  the  coronet  of  thick 
dark  hair  above  the  brow,  all  seeming  to  tell  of  energy 
and  passion;  there  were  the  blue-grey  eyes,  shining 
mildly  under  auburn  eyelashes,  seeming,  like  the  hands, 
to  tell  of  acute  sensitiveness.  Romola  felt  certain  they 
were  the  features  of  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  the  prior 
of  San  Marco,  whom  she  had  chiefly  thought  of  as 
more  offensive  than  other  monks,  because  he  was  more 
noisy.  Her  rebellion  was  rising  against  the  first  im- 
pression, which  had  almost  forced  her  to  bend  her 
knees. 

"Kneel,  my  daughter,"  the  penetrating  voice  said 
again,  "the  pride  of  the  body  is  a  barrier  against  the 
gifts  that  purify  the  soul." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  mild  fixedness  while  he 
spoke,  and  again  she  felt  that  subtle  mysterious  influ- 
[   233   ] 


ROMOLA 

ence  of  a  personality  by  which  it  has  been  given  to  some 
rare  men  to  move  their  fellows. 

Slowly  Romola  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  the  very  act 
a  tremor  came  over  her;  in  the  renunciation  of  her  proud 
erectness,  her  mental  attitude  seemed  changed,  and  she 
found  herself  in  a  new  state  of  passiveness.  Her  brother 
began  to  speak  again,  — 

Ii"!^  "  Romola,  in  the  deep  night,  as  I  lay  awake,  I  saw  my 

father's  room  —  the  library  —  with  all  the  books  and 
the  marbles  and  the  leggio,  where  I  used  to  stand  and 
J.K  read ;  and  I  saw  you  —  you  were  revealed  to  me  as  I  see 

you  now,  with  fair  long  hair,  sitting  before  my  father's 
chair.  And  at  the  leggio  stood  a  man  whose  face  I  could 
not  see.  I  looked,  and  looked,  and  it  was  a  blank  to  me, 
even  as  a  painting  effaced;  and  I  saw  him  move  and 
take  thee,  Romola,  by  the  hand ;  and  then  I  saw  thee 
take  my  father  by  the  hand ;  and  you  all  three  went 
down  the  stone  steps  into  the  streets,  the  man  whose 
face  was  a  blank  to  me  leading  the  way.  And  you  stood 
at  the  altar  in  Santa  Croce,  and  the  priest  who  married 
you  had  the  face  of  death;  and  the  graves  opened,  and 
the  dead  in  their  shrouds  rose  and  followed  you  like 
a  bridal  train.  And  you  passed  on  through  the  streets 
and  the  gates  into  the  valley,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  who  led  you  hurried  you  more  than  you  could 
bear,  and  the  dead  were  weary  of  following  you,  and 
turned  back  to  their  graves.  And  at  last  you  came  to 
a  stony  place  where  there  was  no  water,  and  no  trees  or 
herbage;  but  instead  of  water,  I  saw  written  parchment 
unrolling  itself  everywhere,  and  instead  of  trees  and 
herbage  I  saw  men  of  bronze  and  marble  springing  up 
[   234   ] 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

and  crowding  round  you.  And  my  father  was  faint  for 
want  of  water  and  fell  to  the  ground;  and  the  man 
whose  face  was  a  blank  loosed  thy  hand  and  departed : 
and  as  he  went  I  could  see  his  face;  and  it  was  the  face 
of  the  Great  Tempter.  And  thou,  Romola,  didst  wring 
thy  hands  and  seek  for  water,  and  there  was  none.  And 
the  bronze  and  marble  figures  seemed  to  mock  thee  and 
hold  out  cups  of  water,  and  when  thou  didst  grasp  them 
and  put  them  to  my  father's  lips,  they  turned  to  parch- 
ment. And  the  bronze  and  marble  figures  seemed  to 
turn  into  demons  and  snatch  my  father's  body  from 
thee,  and  the  parchments  shrivelled  up,  and  blood  ran 
everywhere  instead  of  them,  and  fire  upon  the  blood, 
till  they  all  vanished,  and  the  plain  was  bare  and  stony 
again,  and  thou  wast  alone  in  the  midst  of  it.  And  then 
it  seemed  that  the  night  fell  and  I  saw  no  more.  .  .  . 
Thrice  I  have  had  that  vision,  Romola.  I  believe  it  is 
a  revelation  meant  for  thee :  to  warn  thee  against  mar- 
riage as  a  temptation  of  the  enemy;  it  calls  upon  thee  to 
dedicate  thyself  —  " 

His  pauses  had  gradually  become  longer  and  more 
frequent,  and  he  was  now  compelled  to  cease  by  a  severe 
fit  of  gasping,  in  which  his  eyes  were  turned  on  the 
crucifix  as  on  a  light  that  was  vanishing.  Presently  he 
found  strength  to  speak  again,  but  in  a  feebler,  scarcely 
audible  tone. 

"-—to  renounce  the  vain  philosophy  and  corrupt 
thoughts  of  the  heathens :  for  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  and 
death  their  pride  will  turn  to  mockery,  and  the  unclean 
gods  will—" 

The  words  died  away. 

[   235   ] 


ROMOLA 

In  spite  of  the  thought  that  was  at  work  in  Romola, 
telling  her  that  this  vision  was  no  more  than  a  dream, 
fed  by  youthful  memories  and  ideal  convictions,  a 
stjange  awe  had  come  over  her.  Her  mind  was  not  apt 
to  be  assailed  by  sickly  fancies ;  she  had  the  vivid  intel- 
lect and  the  healthy  human  passion,  which  are  too 
keenly  alive  to  the  constant  relations  of  things  to  have 
any  morbid  craving  after  the  exceptional.  Still  the  im- 
ages of  the  vision  she  despised  jarred  and  distressed  her 
like  painful  and  cruel  cries.  And  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  witnessed  the  struggle  with  approaching  death: 
her  young  life  had  been  sombre,  but  she  had  known 
nothing  of  the  utmost  human  needs;  no  acute  suffering 
—  no  heart-cutting  sorrow ;  and  this  brother,  come  back 
to  her  in  his  hour  of  supreme  agony,  was  like  a  sudden 
awful  apparition  from  an  invisible  world.  The  pale 
faces  of  sorrow  in  the  fresco  on  the  opposite  wall  seemed 
to  have  come  nearer,  and  to  make  one  company  with 
the  pale  face  on  the  bed. 

"Frate,"  said  the  dying  voice. 

Fra  Girolamo  leaned  down.  But  no  other  word  came 
for  some  moments. 

"Romola,"  it  said  next. 

She  leaned  forward  too :  but  again  there  was  silence. 
The  words  were  struggling  in  vain. 

"Fra  Girolamo,  give  her  — " 

"  The  crucifix,"  said  the  voice  of  Fra  Girolamo.  No 
other  sound  came  from  the  dying  lips. 

"Dino!"  said  Romola,  with  a  low  but  piercing  cry, 
as  the  certainty  came  upon  her  that  the  silence  of  mis- 
understanding could  never  be  broken. 
[   236   ] 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE 

"Take  the  crucifix,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Giro- 
lamo,  after  a  few  minutes.  "  His  eyes  behold  it  no  more." 

Romola  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  crucifix,  and 
this  act  appeared  to  reheve  the  tension  of  her  mind. 
A  great  sob  burst  from  her.  She  bowed  her  head  by 
the  side  of  her  dead  brother,  and  wept  aloud. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  this  first  vision  of  death  must 
alter  the  daylight  for  her  for  evermore. 

Fra  Girolamo  moved  towards  the  door,  and  called 
in  a  lay  Brother  who  was  waiting  outside.  Then  he 
went  up  to  Romola  and  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle  com- 
mand, "Rise,  my  daughter,  and  be  comforted.  Our 
brother  is  with  the  blessed.  He  has  left  you  the  crucifix, 
in  remembrance  of  the  heavenly  warning  —  that  it  may 
be  a  beacon  to  you  in  the  darkness." 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  trembling,  folded  her  veil 
over  her  head,  and  hid  the  crucifix  under  her  mantle. 
Fra  Girolamo  then  led  the  way  out  into  the  cloistered 
court,  lit  now  only  by  the  stars  and  by  a  lantern  which 
was  held  by  some  one  near  the  entrance.  Several  other 
figures  in  the  dress  of  the  dignified  laity  were  grouped 
about  the  same  spot.  They  were  some  of  the  numerous 
frecjuenters  of  San  Marco,  who  had  come  to  visit  the 
Prior,  and  having  heard  that  he  was  in  attendance  on 
the  dying  Brother  in  the  chapter-house,  had  awaited 
him  here. 

Romola  was  dimly  conscious  of  footsteps  and  rustling 
forms  moving  aside:  she  heard  the  voice  of  Fra  Giro- 
lamo saying,  in  a  low  tone,  "Our  brother  is  departed  "; 
she  felt  a  hand  laid  on  her  arm.  The  next  moment  the 
door  was  opened,  and  she  was  out  in  the  wide  Piazza 
[   237   ] 


ROMOLA 

of  San  Marco,  with  no  one  but  Monna  Brigida,  and 
the  servant  carrying  the  lantern. 

The  fresh  sense  of  space  revived  her,  and  helped  her 
to  recover  her  self-mastery.  The  scene  which  had  just 
closed  upon  her  was  terribly  distinct  and  vivid,  but  it 
began  to  narrow  under  the  returning  impressions  of  the 
life  that  lay  outside  it.  She  hastened  her  steps,  with 
nervous  anxiety  to  be  again  with  her  father  —  and  with 
Tito  —  for  were  they  not  together  in  her  absence  ?  The 
images  of  that  vision,  while  they  clung  about  her  like 
a  hideous  dream  not  yet  to  be  shaken  oflF,  made  her 
yearn  all  the  more  for  the  beloved  faces  and  voices  that 
would  assure  her  of  her  waking  life. 

Tito,  we  know,  was  not  with  Bardo;  his  destiny  was 
being  shaped  by  a  guilty  consciousness,  urging  on  him 
the  despairing  belief  that  by  this  time  Romola  possessed 
the  knowledge  which  would  lead  to  their  final  separation. 

And  the  lips  that  could  have  conveyed  that  knowledge 
were  for  ever  closed.  The  prevision  that  Fra  Luca's 
words  had  imparted  to  Romola  had  been  such  as  comes 
from  the  shadowy  region  where  human  souls  seek  wis- 
dom apart  from  the  human  sympathies  which  are  the 
very  life  and  substance  of  our  wisdom;  the  revelation 
that  might  have  come  from  the  simple  questions  of 
filial  and  brotherly  affection,  had  been  carried  into  irre- 
vocable silence. 


CHAPTER   XVI 
A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

EARLY  the  next  morning  Tito  was  returning  from 
Bratti's  shop  in  the  narrow  thoroughfare  of  the 
Ferravecchi,  The  Genoese  stranger  had  carried  away 
the  onyx  ring,  and  Tito  was  carrying  away  fifty  florins. 
It  did  just  cross  his  mind  that  if,  after  all,  Fortune,  by 
one  of  her  able  devices,  saved  him  from  the  necessity  of 
quitting  Florence,  it  would  be  better  for  him  not  to  have 
parted  with  his  ring,  since  he  had  been  understood  to 
wear  it  for  the  sake  of  peculiar  memories  and  predilec- 
tions ;  still,  it  was  a  slight  matter,  not  worth  dwelling  on 
with  any  emphasis,  and  in  those  moments  he  had  lost 
his  confidence  in  fortune.  The  feverish  excitement  of 
the  first  alarm  which  had  impelled  his  mind  to  travel 
into  the  future  had  given  place  to  a  dull,  regretful  las- 
situde. He  cared  so  much  for  the  pleasures  that  could 
only  come  to  him  through  the  good  opinion  of  his  fellow 
men  that  he  wished  now  he  had  never  risked  ignomiqy 
by  shrinking  from  what  his  fellow  men  called  obligation^ 

But  our  deeds  are  like  children  that  are  born  to  us7\ 
they  live  and  act  apart  from  our  own  will.  Nay,  children 
may  be  strangled,  but  deeds  never:  they  have  an  inde- 
structible life  both  in  and  out  of  our  consciousness ;  and 
that  dreadful  vitality  of  deeds  was  pressing  hard  on  Tito 
for  the  first  time.  -^ 

He  was  going  back  to  his  lodgings  in  the  Piazza  di 
[   239  ] 


ROMOLA 

San  Giovanni,  but  he  avoided  passing  through  the  Mer- 
cato  Vecchio,  which  was  his  nearest  way,  lest  he  should 
see  Tessa.  He  was  not  in  the  humour  to  seek  anything; 
he  could  only  await  the  first  sign  of  his  altering  lot. 

The  piazza  with  its  sights  of  beauty  was  lit  up  by  that 
warm  morning  sunlight  under  which  the  autumn  dew 
still  lingers,  and  which  invites  to  an  idleness  undulled 
by  fatigue.  It  was  a  festival  morning,  too,  when  the  soft 
warmth  seems  to  steal  over  one  with  a  special  in\ntation 
to  lounge  and  gaze.  Here,  too,  the  signs  of  the  fair  were 
present;  in  the  spaces  round  the  octagonal  baptistery, 
stalls  were  being  spread  with  fruit  and  flowers,  and  here 
and  there  laden  mules  were  standing  quietly  absorbed 
in  their  nose-bags,  while  their  drivers  were  perhaps  gone 
through  the  hospitable  sacred  doors  to  kneel  before  the 
Blessed  Virgin  on  this  morning  of  her  Nativity.  On  the 
broad  marble  steps  of  the  Duomo  there  were  scattered 
groups  of  beggars  and  gossiping  talkers:  here  an  old 
crone  with  white  hair  and  hard  sunburnt  face  encourag- 
ing a  round-capped  baby  to  try  its  tiny  bare  feet  on  the 
warmed  marble,  while  a  dog  sitting  near  snuffed  at 
the  performance  suspiciously;  there  a  couple  of  shaggy- 
headed  boys  leaning  to  watch  a  small  pale  cripple  who 
was  cutting  a  face  on  a  cherry-stone;  and  above  them 
on  the  wide  platform  men  were  making  changing-knots 
in  laughing  desultory  chat,  or  else  were  standing  in  close 
couples  gesticulating  eagerly. 

But  the  largest  and  most  important  company  of 

loungers  was  that  towards  which  Tito  had  to  direct 

his  steps.  It  was  the  busiest  time  of  the  day  with  Nello, 

and  in  this  warm  season  and  at  an  hour  when  clients 

[   240   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

were  numerous,  most  men  preferred  being  shaved  under 
the  pretty  red  and  white  awning  in  front  of  the  shop 
rather  than  within  narrow  walls.  It  is  not  a  sublime 
attitude  for  a  man,  to  sit  with  lathered  chin  thrown 
backward,  and  have  his  nose  made  a  handle  of;  but  to 
be  shaved  was  a  fashion  of  Florentine  respectability, 
and  it  is  astonishing  how  gravely  men  look  at  each  other 
when  they  are  all  in  the  fashion.  It  was  the  hour  of  the 
day,  too,  when  yesterday's  crop  of  gossip  was  freshest, 
and  the  barber's  tongue  was  always  in  its  glory  when 
his  razor  was  busy;  the  deft  activity  of  those  two  instru- 
ments seemed  to  be  set  going  by  a  common  spring. 
Tito  foresaw  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
escape  being  drawn  into  the  circle;  he  must  smile  and 
retort,  and  look  perfectly  at  his  ease.  Well !  it  was  but 
the  ordeal  of  swallowing  bread-and-cheese  pills  after  all. 
The  man  who  let  the  mere  anticipation  of  discovery 
choke  him  was  simply  a  man  of  weak  nerves. 

But  just  at  that  time  Tito  felt  a  hand  laid  on  his 
shoulder,  and  no  amount  of  previous  resolution  could 
prevent  the  very  unpleasant  sensation  with  which  that 
sudden  touch  jarred  him.  His  face,  as  he  turned  it 
round,  betrayed  the  inward  shock;  but  the  owner  of 
the  hand  that  seemed  to  have  such  evil  magic  in  it 
broke  into  a  light  laugh.  lie  was  a  young  man  about 
Tito's  own  age,  with  keen  features,  small  close-clipped 
head,  and  close-shaven  lip  and  chin,  giving  the  idea  of 
a  mind  as  little  encumbered  as  possible  with  material 
that  was  not  nervous.  The  keen  eyes  were  bright  with 
hope  and  friendliness,  as  so  many  other  young  eyes 
have  l^een  that  have  aften^ards  closed  on  the  world  in 
[    241    ] 


ROMOLA 

bitterness  and  disappointment;  for  at  that  time  there 
were  none  but  pleasant  predictions  about  Niccolo 
Macchiavelli,  as  a  young  man  of  promise,  who  waa 
expected  to  mend  the  broken  fortunes  of  his  ancient 
family. 

"Why,  Melema,  what  evil  dream  did  you  have  last 
night,  that  you  took  my  light  grasp  for  that  of  a  shirro 
or  something  worse  ?  " 

"Ah,  Messer  Niccolo!"  said  Tito,  recovering  him- 
self immediately;  "it  must  have  been  an  extra  amount 
of  dulness  in  my  veins  this  morning  that  shuddered  at 
the  approach  of  your  wit.  But  the  fact  is,  I  have  had 
a  bad  night." 

"That  is  unlucky,  because  you  will  be  expected  to 
shine  without  any  obstructing  fog  to-day  in  the  Rucellai 
Gardens.   I  take  it  for  granted  you  are  to  be  there." 

"  Messer  Bernardo  did  me  the  honour  to  invite  me," 
said  Tito;  "but  I  shall  be  engaged  elsewhere." 

"Ah!  I  remember,  you  are  in  love,"  said  Macchia- 
velli, with  a  shrug,  "else  you  would  never  have  such 
inconvenient  engagements.  Why,  we  are  to  eat  a  pea- 
cock and  ortolans  under  the  loggia,  among  Bernardo 
Rucellai's  rare  trees;  there  are  to  be  the  choicest  spirits 
in  Florence  and  the  choicest  wines.  Only,  as  Piero  de' 
Medici  is  to  be  there,  the  choice  spirits  may  happen 
to  be  swamped  in  the  capping  of  impromptu  verses. 
I  hate  that  game;  it  is  a  device  for  the  triumph  of  small 
wits,  who  are  always  inspired  the  most  by  the  smallest 
occasions." 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying  about  Piero  de'  Medici 
and  small  wits,  Messer  Niccolo  ? "  said  Nello,  whose 
[   242   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

light  figure  was  at  that  moment  predominating  over 
the  Herculean  frame  of  Niccolo  Caparra. 

That  famous  worker  in  iron,  whom  we  saw  last 
with  bared  muscular  arms  and  leathern  apron  in  the 
Mercato  Vecchio,  was  this  morning  dressed  in  holi- 
day suit,  and  as  he  sat  submissively  while  Nello  skipped 
round  him,  lathered  him,  seized  him  by  the  nose, 
and  scraped  him  with  magical  quickness,  he  looked 
much  as  a  lion  might  if  it  had  donned  linen  and  tunic 
and  was  preparing  to  go  into  society. 

"A  private  secretary  will  never  rise  in  the  world  if 
he  couples  great  and  small  in  that  way,"  continued 
Nello.  "When  great  men  are  not  allowed  to  marry 
their  sons  and  daughters  as  they  like,  small  men  must 
not  expect  to  marry  their  words  as  they  like.  Have 
you  heard  the  news  Domenico  Cennini,  here,  has  been 
telling  us  ?  —  that  Pagolantonio  Soderini  has  given 
Ser  Piero  da  Bibbiena  a  box  on  the  ear  for  setting  on 
Piero  de'  Medici  to  interfere  with  the  marriage  between 
young  Tommaso  Soderini  and  Fiammetta  Strozzi,  and 
is  to  be  sent  ambassador  to  Venice  as  a  punishment  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  which  I  envy  him  most,"  said  Mac- 
chiavelii,  "  the  offence  or  the  punishment.  The  offence 
will  make  him  the  most  popular  man  in  all  Florence, 
and  the  punishment  will  take  him  among  the  only 
people  in  Italy  who  have  known  how  to  manage  their 
own  affairs." 

"  Yes,  if  Soderini  stays  long  enough  at  Venice,"  said 

Cennini,  "  he  may  chance  to  learn  the  Venetian  fashion, 

and  bring  it  home  with  him.   The  Soderini  have  been 

fast  friends  of  the  Medici,  but  what  has  happened  is 

[    243   J 


ROMOLA 

likely  to  open  Pagolantonio's  eyes  to  the  good  of  our 
old  Florentine  trick  of  choosing  a  new  harness  when 
the  old  one  galls  us;  if  we  have  not  quite  lost  the  trick 
in  these  last  fifty  years." 

"Not  we,"  said  Niccolo  Caparra,  who  was  rejoic- 
ing in  the  free  use  of  his  lips  again.  "  Eat  eggs  in  Lent 
and  the  snow  will  melt.  That's  what  I  say  to  our 
people  when  they  get  noisy  over  their  cups  at  San 
Gallo,  and  talk  of  raising  a  romor  (insurrection) :  I  say, 
never  do  you  plan  a  romor;  you  may  as  well  try  to  fill 
Arno  with  buckets.  When  there's  water  enough  Amo 
will  be  full,  and  that  will  not  be  till  the  torrent  is  ready." 

"Caparra,  that  oracular  speech  of  yours  is  due  to 
my  excellent  shaving,"  said  Nello.  "You  could  never 
have  made  it  with  that  dark  rust  on  your  chin.  Ecco, 
Messer  Domenico,  I  am  ready  for  you  now.  By  the 
way,  my  hel  erudito,"  continued  Nello,  as  he  saw  Tito 
moving  towards  the  door,  "here  has  been  old  Maso 
seeking  for  you,  but  your  nest  was  empty.  He  will 
come  again  presently.  The  old  man  looked  mournful, 
and  seemed  in  haste.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  in 
the  Via  de'  Bardi." 

"Doubtless  Messer  Tito  knows  that  Bardo's  son  is 
dead,"  said  Cronaca,  who  had  just  come  up. 

Tito's  heart  gave  a  leap  —  had  the  death  happened 
before  Romola  saw  him  ? 

"  No,  I  had  not  heard  it,"  he  said,  with  no  more  dis- 
composure than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant,  turn- 
ing and  leaning  against  the  doorpwst,  as  if  he  had  given 
up  his  intention  of  going  away.  "  I  knew  that  his  sister 
had  gone  to  see  him.  Did  he  die  before  she  arrived  ?  " 
[   244   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

"No,"  said  Cronaca;  "I  was  in  San  Marco  at  the 
time,  and  saw  her  come  out  from  the  chapter-house 
with  Fra  Girolamo,  who  told  us  that  the  dying  man's 
breath  had  been  preserved  as  by  a  miracle,  that  he 
might  make  a  disclosure  to  his  sister." 

Tito  felt  that  his  fate  was  decided.  Again  his  mind 
rushed  over  all  the  circumstances  of  his  departure 
from  Florence,  and  he  conceived  a  plan  of  getting  back 
his  money  from  Cennini  before  the  disclosure  had  be- 
come public.  If  he  once  had  his  money  he  need  not 
stay  long  in  endurance  of  scorching  looks  and  biting 
words.  He  would  wait  now,  and  go  away  with  Cennini 
and  get  the  money  from  him  at  once.  With  that  pro- 
ject in  his  mind  he  stood  motionless  —  his  hands  in 
his  belt,  his  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  ground.  Nello, 
glancing  at  him,  felt  sure  that  he  was  absorbed  in  anx- 
iety about  Romola,  and  thought  him  such  a  pretty  image 
of  self-forgetful  sadness,  that  he  just  perceptibly  pointed 
his  razor  at  him,  and  gave  a  challenging  look  at  Piero 
di  Cosimo,  whom  he  had  never  forgiven  for  his  refusal 
to  see  any  prognostics  of  character  in  his  favourite's 
handsome  face.  Piero,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
other  doorjiost,  close  to  Tito,  shrugged  his  shoulders: 
the  frequent  recurrence  of  such  challenges  from  Nello 
had  changed  the  painter's  first  declaration  of  neutral- 
ity into  a  positive  inclination  to  believe  ill  of  the  much- 
praised  Greek. 

"So  you  have  got  your  Fra  Girolamo  back  again, 
Cronaca  ?  I  suppose  we  shall  have  him  preaching  again 
this  next  Advent,"  said  Nello. 

"And  not  before  there  is  need,"  said  Cronaca, 
[   245   ] 


ROMOLA 

gravely.  "  We  have  had  the  best  testimony  to  his  words 
since  the  last  Quaresima;  for  even  to  the  wicked  wicked- 
ness has  become  a  plague;  and  the  ripeness  of  vice  is 
turning  to  rottenness  in  the  nostrils  even  of  the  vicious. 
There  has  not  been  a  change  since  the  Quaresima, 
either  in  Rome  or  at  Florence,  but  has  put  a  new  seal 
on  the  Frate's  words  —  that  the  harvest  of  sin  is  ripe, 
and  that  God  will  reap  it  with  a  sword." 

"I  hope  he  has  had  a  new  vision,  however,"  said 
Francesco  Cei,  sneeringly.  "The  old  ones  are  some- 
what stale.  Can't  your  Frate  get  a  poet  to  help  out  his 
imagination  for  him  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  lack  of  poets  about  him,"  said  Cronaca, 
with  quiet  contempt,  "  but  they  are  great  poets  and 
not  little  ones;  so  they  are  contented  to  be  taught  by 
him,  and  no  more  think  the  truth  stale  which  God 
has  given  him  to  utter  than  they  think  the  light  of  the 
moon  is  stale.  But  perhaps  certain  high  prelates  and 
princes  who  dislike  the  Frate's  denunciations  might 
be  pleased  to  hear  that,  though  Giovanni  Pico,  and 
Poliziano,  and  Marsilio  Ficino,  and  most  other  men  of 
mark  in  Florence,  reverence  Fra  Girolamo,  Messer 
Francesco  Cei  despises  him." 

"  Poliziano  ?  "  said  Cei,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "  Yes, 
doubtless  he  believes  in  your  new  Jonah;  witness  the 
fine  orations  he  wrote  for  the  envoys  of  Sienna,  to  tell 
Alexander  the  Sixth  that  the  world  and  the  Church 
were  never  so  well  off  as  since  he  became  Pope." 

"  Nay,  Francesco,"  said  Macchiavelli,  smiling, "  a  vari- 
ous scholar  must  have  various  opinions.  And  as  for 
the  Frate,  whatever  we  may  think  of  his  saintliness 
[   246   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

you  judge  his  preaching  too  narrowly.  The  secret 
of  oratory  lies,  not  in  saying  new  things,  but  in  saying 
things  with  a  certain  power  that  moves  the  hearers 
—  without  which,  as  old  Filelfo  has  said,  your  speaker 
deserves  to  be  called,  'non  oratorem,  sed  aratorem.' 
And,  according  to  that  test,  Fra  Girolamo  is  a  great 
orator." 

"That  is  true,  Niccolo,"  said  Cennini,  speaking 
from  the  shaving-chair,  "  but  part  of  the  secret  lies  in 
the  prophetic  visions.  Our  people  —  no  offence  to 
you,  Cronaca  —  will  run  after  anything  in  the  shape  / 
of  a  prophet,  especially  if  he  prophesies  terrors  and 
tribulations." 

"Rather  say,  Cennini,"  answered  Cronaca,  "that  the 
chief  secret  lies  in  the  Frate's  pure  life  and  strong 
faith,  which  stamp  him  as  a  messenger  of  God." 

"I  admit  it  —  I  admit  it,"  said  Cennini,  opening  his 
palms,  as  he  rose  from  the  chair.  "His  life  is  spotless: 
no  man  has  impeached  it." 

"  He  is  satisfied  with  the  pleasant  lust  of  arrogance," 
Cei  burst  out,  bitterly.  "  I  can  see  it  in  that  proud  lip 
and  satisfied  eye  of  his.  He  hears  the  air  filled  with  his 
own  name  —  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  of  Ferrara; 
the  prophet,  the  saint,  the  mighty  preacher,  who  fright- 
ens the  very  babies  of  Florence  into  laying  down  their 
wicked  baubles." 

"Come,  come,  Francesco,  you  are  out  of  humour 
with  waiting,"  said  the  conciliatory  Nello.  "  Let  me 
stop  your  mouth  with  a  little  lather.  I  must  not  have 
my  friend  Cronaca  made  angry:  I  have  a  regard  for 
his  chin;  and  his  chin  is  in  no  respect  altered  since  he 
[   247   ] 


ROMOLA 

became  a  Piagnone.  And  for  my  own  part,  I  confess, 
when  the  Frate  was  preaching  in  the  Duomo  last  Ad- 
vent, I  got  into  such  a  trick  of  slipping  in  to  listen  to 
him  that  I  might  have  turned  Piagnone  too,  if  I  had 
not  been  hindered  by  the  liberal  nature  of  my  art;  and 
also  by  the  length  of  the  sermons,  which  are  some- 
times a  good  while  before  they  get  to  the  moving-point. 
But,  as  Messer  Niccolo  here  says,  the  Frate  lays  hold 
of  the  people  by  some  power  over  and  above  his  pro- 
phetic visions.  Monks  and  nuns  who  prophesy  are 
not  of  that  rareness.  For  what  says  Luigi  Pulci  ?  '  Dom- 
bruno's  sharp-cutting  scimitar  had  the  fame  of  being 
enchanted;  but,'  says  Luigi,  'I  am  rather  of  opinion 
that  it  cut  sharp  because  it  was  of  strongly-tempered 
steel.'  Yes,  yes;  Paternosters  may  shave  clean,  but 
they  must  be  said  over  a  good  razor." 

"See,  Nello!"  said  Macchiavelli,  "what  doctor  is 
this  advancing  on  his  Bucephalus  ?  I  thought  your 
piazza  was  free  from  those  furred  and  scarlet-robed 
lackeys  of  death.  This  man  looks  as  if  he  had  had 
some  such  night  adventure  as  Boccaccio's  Maestro 
Simone,  and  had  his  bonnet  and  mantle  pickled  a 
little  in  the  gutter;  though  he  himself  is  as  sleek  as 
a  miller's  rat." 

"  A-ah ! "  said  Nello,  with  a  low,  long-drawn  intona- 
tion, as  he  looked  up  towards  the  advancing  figure  — 
a  round-headed,  round-bodied  personage,  seated  on 
a  raw  young  horse,  which  held  its  nose  out  with  an  air 
of  threatening  obstinacy,  and  by  a  constant  effort  to 
back  and  go  off  in  an  oblique  line  showed  free  views 
about  authority  very  much  in  advance  of  the  age. 
[   248   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

"And  I  have  a  few  more  adventures  in  pickle  for 
him,"  continued  Nello,  in  an  undertone,  "  which  I  hope 
will  drive  his  inquiring  nostrils  to  another  quarter 
of  the  city.  He's  a  doctor  from  Padua;  they  say  he 
has  been  at  Prato  for  three  months,  and  now  he's 
come  to  Florence  to  see  what  he  can  net.  But  his  great 
trick  is  making  rounds  among  the  contadini.  And  do 
you  note  those  great  saddle-bags  he  carries  ?  They 
are  to  hold  the  fat  capons  and  eggs  and  meal  he  levies 
on  silly  clowns  with  whom  coin  is  scarce.  He  vends 
his  own  secret  medicines,  so  he  keeps  away  from  the 
doors  of  the  druggists;  and  for  this  last  week  he  has 
taken  to  sitting  in  my  piazza  for  two  or  three  hours  every 
day,  and  making  it  a  resort  for  asthmas  and  squalling 
bambini.  It  stirs  my  gall  to  see  the  toad-faced  quack 
fingering  the  greasy  quattrini,  or  bagging  a  pigeon  in 
exchange  for  his  pills  and  powders.  But  I  '11  put  a  few 
thorns  in  his  saddle,  else  I  'm  no  Florentine.  Laudamus ! 
he  is  coming  to  be  shaved;  that's  what  I've  waited 
for.  Messer  Domenico,  go  not  away:  wait;  you  shall 
see  a  rare  bit  of  fooling,  which  I  devised  two  days  ago. 
Here,  Sandro!" 

Nello  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Sandro,  who  rolled 
his  solemn  eyes,  nodded,  and,  following  up  these  signs 
of  understanding  with  a  slow  smile,  took  to  his  heels 
with  surprising  rapidity. 

"  How  is  it  with  you,  Maestro  Tacco  ?  "  said  Nello, 
as  the  doctor,  with  diflBculty,  brought  his  horse's  head 
round  towards  the  barber's  shop.  "That  is  a  fine 
young  horse  of  yours,  but  something  raw  in  the  mouth, 
eh?" 

[   249   ] 


ROMOLA 

"He  is  an  accursed  beast,  the  vermocane  seize  him!** 
said  Maestro  Tacco,  with  a  burst  of  irritation,  de- 
scending from  his  saddle  and  fastening  the  old  bridle, 
mended  with  string,  to  an  iron  staple  in  the  wall.  "  Never- 
theless," he  added,  recollecting  himself,  "  a  sound  beast 
and  a  valuable,  for  one  who  wanted  to  purchase,  and 
get  a  profit  by  training  him.   I  had  him  cheap." 

"Rather  too  hard  riding  for  a  man  who  carries  your 
weight  of  learning :  eh.  Maestro  ? "  said  Nello.  "  You 
seem  hot." 

"Truly,  I  am  likely  to  be  hot,"  said  the  doctor, 
taking  off  his  bonnet,  and  giving  to  full  view  a  bald 
low  head  and  flat  broad  face,  with  high  ears,  wide 
lipless  mouth,  round  eyes,  and  deep  arched  lines  above 
the  projecting  eyebrows,  which  altogether  made  Nello's 
epithet  "toad-faced"  dubiously  complimentary  to  the 
blameless  batrachian.  "  Riding  from  Peretola,  when 
the  sun  is  high,  is  not  the  same  thing  as  kicking  your 
heels  on  a  bench  in  the  shade,  like  your  Florence  doc- 
tors. Moreover,  I  have  had  not  a  little  pulling  to  get 
through  the  carts  and  mules  into  the  Mercato,  to  find 
out  the  husband  of  a  certain  Monna  Ghita,  who  had 
had  a  fatal  seizure  before  I  was  called  in;  and  if  it  had 
not  been  that  I  had  to  demand  my  fees  — " 

"Monna  Ghita!"  said  Nello,  as  the  perspiring 
doctor  interrupted  himself  to  rub  his  head  and  face. 
"Peace  be  with  her  angry  soul!  The  Mercato  will 
want  a  whip  the  more  if  her  tongue  is  laid  to  rest." 

Tito,  who  had  roused  himself  from  his  abstraction, 
and  was  listening  to  the  dialogue,  felt  a  new  rush  of 
the  vague  half-formed  ideas  about  Tessa,  which  had 
[   250   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

passed  through  his  mind  the  evening  before:  if  Monna 
Ghita  were  really  taken  out  of  the  way,  it  would  be 
easier  for  him  to  see  Tessa  again  —  whenever  he  wanted 
to  see  her. 

"  Gnajfi\  Maestro,"  Nello  went  on,  in  a  sympa- 
thizing tone,  "you  are  the  slave  of  rude  mortals,  who, 
but  for  you,  would  die  like  brutes,  without  help  of  pill 
or  powder.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  your  learned  lymph 
oozing  from  your  pores  as  if  it  were  mere  vulgar  moist- 
ure. You  think  my  shaving  will  cool  and  disencum- 
ber you  ?  One  moment  and  I  have  done  with  Messer 
Francesco  here.  It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  till 
I  wait  upon  a  man  who  carries  all  the  science  of  Arabia 
in  his  head  and  saddle-bags.    Eccol" 

Nello  held  up  the  shaving-cloth  with  an  air  of  in- 
vitation and  Maestro  Tacco  advanced  and  seated 
himself  under  a  preoccupation  with  his  heat  and  his 
self-importance,  which  made  him  quite  deaf  to  the  irony 
conveyed  in  Ncllo's  officiously  polite  speech. 

"It  is  but  fitting  that  a  great  medicus  like  you," 
said  Nello,  adjusting  the  cloth,  "should  be  shaved  by 
the  same  razor  that  has  shaved  the  illustrious  Antonio 
Benevicni,  the  greatest  master  of  the  chirurgic  art." 

"The  chirurgic  art!"  interrupted  the  doctor,  with 
an  air  of  contemptuous  disgust.  "Is  it  your  Floren- 
tine fashion  to  put  the  masters  of  the  science  of  medi- 
cine on  a  level  with  men  who  do  carpentry  on  broken 
limbs,  and  sew  up  wounds  like  tailors,  and  carve  away 
excrescences  as  a  butcher  trims  meat  ?  Via !  A  man- 
ual art  —  such  as  any  artificer  might  learn,  and  which 
has  been  practised  by  simple  barbers  like  yourself  — 
[   251    ] 


ROMOLA 

on  a  level  with  the  noble  science  of  Hippocrates,  Galen, 
and  Avicenna,  which  penetrates  into  the  occult  influ- 
ences of  the  stars  and  plants  and  gems!  —  a  science 
locked  up  from  the  vulgar!" 

"  No,  in  truth.  Maestro,"  said  Nello,  using  his  lather 
very  deliberately,  as  if  he  wanted  to  prolong  the  opera- 
tion to  the  utmost,  "I  never  thought  of  placing  them 
on  a  level:  I  know  your  science  comes  next  to  the 
miracles  of  Holy  Church  for  mystery.  But  there,  you 
see,  is  the  pity  of  it,"  —  here  Nello  fell  into  a  tone  of 
regretful  sympathy,  —  "your  high  science  is  sealed  from 
the  profane  and  the  vulgar,  and  so  you  become  an  ob- 
ject of  envy  and  slander.  I  grieve  to  say  it,  but  there 
are  low  fellows  in  this  city  —  mere  sgherri  —  who  go 
about  in  nightcaps  and  long  beards,  and  make  it  their 
business  to  sprinkle  gall  in  every  man's  broth  who  is 
prospering.  Let  me  tell  you  —  for  you  are  a  stranger 
—  this  is  a  city  where  every  man  had  need  carry  a  large 
nail  ready  to  fasten  on  the  wheel  of  fortune  when  his  side 
happens  to  be  uppermost.  Already  there  are  stories  — 
mere  fables,  doubtless  —  beginning  to  be  buzzed  about 
concerning  you,  that  make  me  wish  I  could  hear 
of  your  being  well  on  your  way  to  Arezzo.  I  would 
not  have  a  man  of  your  metal  stoned,  for  though  San 
Stefano  was  stoned,  he  was  not  great  in  medicine  like 
San  Cosmo  and  San  Damiano.  ..." 

"  Wliat  stories  ?  what  fables  ? "  stammered  Maestro 
Tacco.   "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Lasso  I  I  fear  me  you  are  come  into  the  trap  for 
your  cheese.  Maestro.  The  fact  is,  there  is  a  company 
of  evil  youths  who  go  prowling  about  the  houses  of 
[   252   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

our  citizens  carrying  sharp  tools  in  their  pockets;  — 
no  sort  of  door  or  window  or  shutter,  but  they  will 
pierce  it.  They  are  possessed  with  a  diabolical  patience 
to  watch  the  doings  of  people  who  fancy  themselves 
private.  It  must  be  they  who  have  done  it  —  it  must  be 
they  who  have  spread  the  stories  about  you  and  your 
medicines.  Have  you  by  chance  detected  any  small 
aperture  in  your  door,  or  window-shutter  ?  No  ?  Well, 
I  advise  you  to  look;  for  it  is  now  commonly  talked 
of  that  you  have  been  seen  in  your  dwelling  at  the 
Canto  di  Paglia,  making  your  secret  specifics  by  night: 
pounding  dried  toads  in  a  mortar,  compounding  a  salve 
out  of  mashed  worms,  and  making  your  pills  from  the 
dried  livers  of  rats  which  you  mix  with  saliva  emitted 
during  the  utterance  of  blasphemous  incantations  — 
which  indeed  these  witnesses  profess  to  repeat." 

"It  is  a  pack  of  lies!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  strug- 
gling to  get  utterance,  and  then  desisting  in  alarm  at 
the  approaching  razor. 

"  It  is  not  to  me,  or  any  of  this  respectable  company, 
that  you  need  to  say  that,  doctor.  We  are  not  the  heads  to 
plant  such  carrots  as  those  in.  But  what  of  that  ?  What 
are  a  handful  of  reasonable  men  against  a  crowd  with 
stones  in  their  hands  ?  There  are  those  among  us  who 
think  Cecco  d'  Ascoli  was  an  innocent  sage  —  and  we 
all  know  how  he  was  burnt  alive  for  being  wiser  than 
his  fellows.  Ah,  doctor,  it  is  not  by  living  at  Padua  that 
you  can  learn  to  know  Florentines.  My  belief  is,  they 
would  stone  the  Holy  Father  himself,  if  they  could  find 
a  good  excuse  for  it;  and  they  are  persuaded  that  you 
are  a  necromancer,  who  is  trying  to  raise  the  pestilence 
[   253   ] 


ROMOLA 

by  selling  secret  medicines  —  and  I  am  told  your  speci- 
fics have  in  truth  an  evil  smell." 

"It  is  false!"  burst  out  the  doctor,  as  Nello  moved 
away  his  razor;  "  it  is  false!  I  will  show  the  pills  and  the 
powders  to  these  honourable  signori  —  and  the  salve  — 
it  has  an  excellent  odour  —  an  odour  of  —  of  salve." 
He  started  up  with  the  lather  on  his  chin,  and  the  cloth 
round  his  neck,  to  search  in  his  saddle-bag  for  the  belied 
medicines,  and  Nello  in  an  instant  adroitly  shifted  the 
shaving-chair  till  it  was  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the  horse's 
head,  while  Sandro,  who  had  now  returned,  at  a  sign 
from  his  master  placed  himself  near  the  bridle. 
"  "  Behold,  Messeri !"  said  the  doctor,  bringing  a  small 
box  of  medicines  and  opening  it  before  them.  "  Let  any 
signor  apply  this  box  to  his  nostrils  and  he  will  find  an 
honest  odour  of  medicaments  —  not  indeed  of  pounded 
gems,  or  rare  vegetables  from  the  Esist,  or  stones  found 
in  the  bodies  of  birds;  for  I  practise  on  the  diseases  of 
the  vulgar,  for  whom  heaven  has  provided  cheaper  and 
less  powerful  remedies  according  to  their  degree:  and 
there  are  even  remedies  known  to  our  science  which  are 
entirely  free  of  cost  —  as  the  new  tussis  may  be  counter- 
acted in  the  poor,  who  can  pay  for  no  specifics,  by  a  reso- 
lute holding  of  the  breath.  And  here  is  a  paste  which  is 
even  of  savoury  odour,  and  is  infallible  against  mel- 
ancholia, being  concocted  under  the  conjunction  of 
Jupiter  and  Venus ;  and  I  have  seen  it  allay  spasms." 

"Stay,  Maestro,"  said  Nello,  while  the  doctor  had 

his  lathered  face  turned  towards  the  group  near  the 

door,  eagerly  holding  out  his  box,  and  lifting  out  one 

specific  after  another;  "here  comes  a  crying  contadina 

[   254   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

with  her  baby.  Doubtless  she  is  in  search  of  you ;  it  is 
perhaps  an  opportunity  for  you  to  show  this  honourable 
company  a  proof  of  your  skill.  Here,  buona  donna! 
here  is  the  famous  doctor.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with 
the  sweet  bimbo  ?  " 

This  question  was  addressed  to  a  sturdy-looking, 
broad-shouldered  contadina,  with  her  head  drapery 
folded  about  her  face  so  that  little  was  to  be  seen  but 
a  bronzed  nose  and  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  and  eyebrows. 
She  carried  her  child  packed  up  in  the  stiff  mummy- 
shaped  case  in  which  Italian  babies  have  been  from 
time  immemorial  introduced  into  society,  turning  its 
face  a  little  towards  her  bosom,  and  making  those 
sorrowful  grimaces  which  women  are  in  the  habit  of 
using  as  a  sort  of  pulleys  to  draw  down  reluctant 
tears. 

"Oh,  for  the  love  of  the  Holy  Madonna!"  said  the 
woman,  in  a  wailing  voice;  "will  you  look  at  my  poor 
bimbo  ?  I  know  I  can't  pay  you  for  it,  but  I  took  it  into 
the  Nunziata  last  night,  and  it 's  turned  a  worse  colour 
than  before ;  it 's  the  convulsions.  But  when  I  was  hold- 
ing it  before  the  Santissima  Nunziata,  I  remembered 
they  said  there  was  a  new  doctor  come  who  cured  every- 
thing; and  so  I  thought  it  might  be  the  will  of  the  Holy 
Madonna  that  I  should  bring  it  to  you." 

"  Sit  down.  Maestro,  sit  down,"  said  Nello.  "  Here  is 
an  opportunity  for  you;  here  are  honourable  witnesses 
who  will  declare  before  the  Magnificent  Eight  that  they 
have  seen  you  practising  honestly  and  relieving  a  poor 
woman's  child.  And  then  if  your  life  is  in  danger,  the 
Magnificent  Eight  will  put  you  in  prison  a  little  while 
[    i55   ] 


ROMOLA 

just  to  insure  your  safety,  and  after  that,  their  sbirri  will 
conduct  you  out  of  Florence  by  night,  as  they  did  the 
zealous  Frate  Minore  who  preached  against  the  Jews. 
What!  our  people  are  given  to  stone-throwing;  but  we 
have  magistrates." 

The  doctor,  unable  to  refuse,  seated  himself  in  the 
shaving-chair,  trembling,  half  with  fear  and  half  with 
rage,  and  by  this  time  quite  unconscious  of  the  lather 
which  Nello  had  laid  on  with  such  profuseness.  He 
deposited  his  medicine-case  on  his  knees,  took  out  his 
precious  spectacles  (wondrous  Florentine  device!)  from 
his  wallet,  lodged  them  carefully  above  his  flat  nose  and 
high  ears,  and  lifting  up  his  brows,  turned  towards  the 
applicant. 

"O  Santiddio!  look  at  him,"  said  the  woman,  with 
a  more  piteous  wail  than  ever,  as  she  held  out  the  small 
mummy,  which  had  its  head  completely  concealed  by 
dingy  drapery  wound  round  the  head  of  the  portable 
cradle,  but  seemed  to  be  struggling  and  crying  in  a 
demoniacal  fashion  under  this  imprisonment.  "The 
fit  is  on  him!  Ohime!  I  know  what  colour  he  is;  it's  the 
evil  eye  —  oh ! " 

The  doctor,  anxiously  holding  his  knees  together  to 
support  his  box,  bent  his  spectacles  towards  the  baby, 
and  said  cautiously,  "  It  may  be  a  new  disease ;  unwind 
these  rags,  Monna!" 

The  contadina,  with  sudden  energy,  snatched  off  the 
encircling  linen,  when  out  struggled  —  scratching,  grin- 
ning, and  screaming  —  what  the  doctor  in  his  fright 
fully  believed  to  be  a  demon,  but  what  Tito  recognized 
as  Vaiano's  monkey,  made  more  formidable  by  an  arti- 
[   256   ] 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE 

ficial  blackness,  such  as  might  have  come  from  a  hasty 
rubbing  up  the  chimney. 

Up  started  the  unfortunate  doctor,  letting  his  medi- 
cine-box fall,  and  away  jumped  the  no  less  terrified  and 
indignant  monkey,  finding  the  first  resting-place  for  his 
claws  on  the  horse's  mane,  which  he  used  as  a  sort  of 
rope-ladder  till  he  had  fairly  found  his  equilibrium, 
when  he  continued  to  clutch  it  as  a  bridle.  The  horse 
wanted  no  spur  under  such  a  rider,  and,  the  already 
loosened  bridle  offering  no  resistance,  darted  off  across 
the  piazza,  with  the  monkey,  clutching,  grinning,  and 
blinking,  on  his  neck. 

"  //  cavallo!  II  Diavolo!  "  was  now  shouted  on  all  sides 
by  the  idle  rascals  who  gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the 
piazza,  and  was  echoed  in  tones  of  alarm  by  the  stall- 
keepers,  whose  vested  interests  seemed  in  some  danger; 
while  the  doctor,  out  of  his  wits  with  confused  terror  at 
the  Devil,  the  possible  stoning,  and  the  escape  of  his 
horse,  took  to  his  heels  with  spectacles  on  nose,  lathered 
face,  and  the  shaving-cloth  about  his  neck,  crying  — • 
"  Stop  him !  stop  him !  for  a  powder  —  a  florin  —  stop 
him  for  a  florin!"  while  the  lads,  outstripping  him, 
clapped  their  hands  and  shouted  encouragement  to  the 
runaway. 

The  cerretano,  who  had  not  bargained  for  the  flight 
of  his  monkey  along  with  the  horse,  had  caught  up  his 
petticoats  with  much  celerity,  and  showed  a  pair  of  parti- 
coloured hose  above  his  contadina's  shoes,  far  in  ad- 
vance of  the  doctor.  And  away  went  the  grotesque  race 
up  the  Corso  degli  Adimari  —  the  horse  with  the  singu- 
lar jockey,  the  contadina  with  the  remarkable  hose,  and 
[   257   ] 


ROMOLA 

the  doctor  in  lather  and  spectacles,  with  furred  mantle 
outflying. 

It  was  a  scene  such  as  Florentines  loved,  from  the 
potent  and  reverend  signor  going  to  council  in  his  lucco 
down  to  the  grinning  youngster,  who  felt  himself  master 
of  all  situations  when  his  bag  was  filled  with  smooth 
stones  from  the  convenient  dry  bed  of  the  torrent.  The 
grey-headed  Domenico  Cennini  laughed  no  less  heartily 
than  the  younger  men,  and  Nello  was  triumphantly  se- 
cure of  the  general  admiration. 

"  Aha ! "  he  exclaimed,  snapping  his  fingers  when  the 
first  burst  of  laughter  was  subsiding.  "  I  have  cleared 
my  piazza  of  that  unsavoury  fly-trap,  mi  pare.  Maestro 
Tacco  will  no  more  come  here  again  to  sit  for  patients 
than  he  will  take  to  licking  marble  for  his  dinner." 

"You  are  going  towards  the  Piazza  della  Signoria, 
Messer  Domenico,"  said  Macchiavelli.  "  I  will  go  with 
you,  and  we  shall  perhaps  see  who  has  deserved  the  palio 
among  these  racers.   Come,  Melcma,  will  you  go  too  ?  " 

It  had  been  precisely  Tito's  intention  to  accompany 
Cennini,  but  before  he  had  gone  many  steps,  he  was 
called  back  by  Nello,  who  saw  Maso  approaching. 

Maso's  message  was  from  Romola.  She  wished  Tito 
to  go  to  the  Via  de'  Bardi  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
would  see  him  under  the  loggia,  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
as  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  alone. 


CHAPTER   XVII 
UNDER  THE  LOGGIA 

THE  loggia  at  the  top  of  Bardo's  house  rose  above 
the  buildings  on  each  side  of  it,  and  formed  a  gallery 
round  quadrangular  walls.  On  the  side  towards  the 
street  the  roof  was  supported  by  columns;  but  on  the 
remaining  sides,  by  a  wall  pierced  with  arched  openings, 
so  that  at  the  back,  looking  over  a  crowd  of  irregular 
poorly-built  dwellings  towards  the  hill  of  Bogoli,  Romola 
could  at  all  times  have  a  walk  sheltered  from  observation. 
Near  one  of  those  arched  openings,  close  to  the  door  by 
which  he  had  entered  the  loggia,  Tito  awaited  her,  with 
a  sickening  sense  of  the  sunlight  that  slanted  before  him 
and  mingled  itself  with  the  ruin  of  his  hopes.  He  had 
never  for  a  moment  relied  on  Romola's  passion  for  him 
as  likely  to  be  too  strong  for  the  repulsion  created  by 
the  discovery  of  his  secret;  he  had  not  the  presumptuous 
vanity  which  might  have  hindered  him  from  feeling  that 
her  love  had  the  same  root  with  her  belief  in  him.  But 
as  he  imagined  her  coming  towards  him  in  her  radiant 
beauty,  made  so  loveably  mortal  by  her  soft  hazel  eyes, 
he  fell  into  wishing  that  she  had  been  something  lower, 
if  it  were  only  that  she  might  let  him  clasp  her  and  kiss 
her  before  they  parted.  He  had  had  no  real  caress  from 
her  —  nothing  but  now  and  then  a  long  glance,  a  kiss, 
a  pressure  of  the  hand ;  and  he  had  so  often  longed  that 
they  should  be  alone  together.  They  were  going  to  be 
[   259   ] 


ROMOLA 


now;  btrt  be  mm  her  standing  inexorably  aloof 
boBk  bim.  W&  heart  gscre  a  great  throb  a^  he  saw  the 
door  mane:  Ramola  was  there.  It  was  all  like  a  Eash  of 
^liliiiiig;  he  left,  lather  than  saw,  the  glorv  about  he; 
bead,  flie  teaifal  appfaKng  eyes;  he  felt  rather  than 
beaid,  Ae  aj  dt  byte  wifli  which  she  said,  "Tito!" 

And  in  Ae  same  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  and 
aobbing  with  her  face  against  his. 

ISsfw  poor  Romola  had  yearned  through  the  watches 
of  Ae  n^it  to  aee  that  bright  face  I  The  new  image  of 
death;  the  stxange  bewildering  doubt  infused  into  her 
bf  tibe  storjr  of  a  fife  removed  from  her  understanding 
and  sympathj;  Ae  haimting  vision,  which  she  seemed 
not  only  to  hear  uttered  by  the  low  gasping  voice,  but 
to  fife  Ihtmigb,  as  if  it  had  been  her  own  dream,  had 
made  bCT  more  conscious  than  ever  that  it  was  Tito 
friio  bad  first  brought  the  warm  stream  of  hope  and 
^aAmm  into  her  life,  and  who  had  first  turned  away 
tf»  keen  edgf^  of  pain  in  the  remembrance  of  her  brother. 
She  would  tell  Tito  everything;  there  was  no  one  else 
to  whom  she  could  tell  it.  She  had  been  restraining 
h iwlf  in  the  presence  of  her  father  aU  the  morning; 
bat  now,  that  longr  pent-up  sob  might  come  forth. 
Frood  and  setf-controUed  to  all  the  world  beside, 
Bomola  was  as  simple  and  unreserved  as  a  child  in  her 
kwe  for  Tito.  She  had  been  quite  contented  with  the 
days  wh^i  th^  had  only  looked  at  each  other;  but 
r,  when  alie  felt  the  need  of  clinging  to  him,  there 
no  tbougbt  that  hindered  her. 
'Mj  Bfloiola!  mj  goddess!*^  Tito  murmured  with 
iundiiHW,  as  he  clasped  her  gently,  and 
[   260   ] 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA 

kissed  the  thick  golden  ripples  on  her  neck.  He  was  in 
paradise:  disgrace,  shame,  parting  —  there  was  no  fear 
of  them  any  longer.  This  happiness  was  too  strong 
to  be  marred  by  the  sense  that  Romola  was  deceived 
in  him;  nay,  he  could  only  rejoice  in  her  delusion;  for, 
after  all,  concealment  had  been  wisdom.  The  only 
thing  he  could  regret  was  his  needless  dread ;  if,  indeed, 
the  dread  had  not  been  worth  suffering  for  the  sake  of 
this  sudden  rapture. 

The  sob  had  satisfied  itself,  and  Romola  raised  her 
head.  Neither  of  them  spoke;  they  stood  looking  at 
each  other's  faces  with  that  sweet  wonder  which  be- 
longs to  young  love  —  she  with  her  long  white  hands 
on  the  dark  brown  curls,  and  he  with  his  dark  fingers 
bathed  in  the  streaming  gold.  Each  was  so  beautiful 
to  the  other;  each  was  experiencing  that  undisturbed 
mutual  consciousness  for  the  first  time.  The  cold 
pressure  of  a  new  sadness  on  Romola's  heart  made 
her  linger  the  more  in  that  silent  soothing  sense  of 
nearness  and  love;  and  Tito  could  not  even  seek  to 
press  his  lips  to  hers,  because  that  would  be  change. 

"Tito,"  she  said  at  last,  "it  has  been  altogether 
painful,  but  I  must  tell  you  everything.  Your  strength 
will  help  me  to  resist  the  impressions  that  will  not  be 
shaken  off  by  reason." 

"I  know,  Romola  —  I  know  he  is  dead,"  said  Tito; 
and  the  long  lustrous  eyes  told  nothing  of  the  many 
wishes  that  would  have  brought  about  that  death  long 
ago  if  there  had  been  such  potency  in  mere  wishes. 
Romola  only  read  her  own  pure  thoughts  in  their  dark 
depths  as  we  read  letters  in  happy  dreams. 
[   2(J1    ] 


ROMOLA 

"So  changed,  Tito!  It  pierced  me  to  think  that  it 
was  Dino.  And  so  strangely  hard:  not  a  word  to  my 
father;  nothing  but  a  vision  that  he  wanted  to  tell  me. 
And  yet  it  was  so  piteous  —  the  struggling  breath,  and 
the  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  towards  the  crucifix,  and 
yet  not  to  see  it.  I  shall  never  forget  it :  it  seems  as  if  it 
would  come  between  me  and  everj-thing  I  shall  look  at." 

Romola's  heart  swelled  again,  so  that  she  was  forced 
to  break  off.  But  the  need  she  felt  to  disburden  her 
mind  to  Tito  urged  her  to  repress  the  rising  anguish. 
When  she  began  to  speak  again,  her  thoughts  had 
travelled  a  little. 

"It  was  strange,  Tito.  The  vision  was  about  our 
marriage,  and  yet  he  knew  nothing  of  you." 

"  What  was  it,  my  Romola  ?  Sit  down  and  tell  me,** 
said  Tito,  leading  her  to  the  bench  that  stood  near.  A 
fear  had  come  across  him  lest  the  vision  should  some- 
how or  other  relate  to  Baldassarre;  and  this  sudden 
change  of  feeling  prompted  him  to  seek  a  change  of 
position. 

Romola  told  him  all  that  had  passed,  from  her  en- 
trance into  San  Marco,  hardly  leaving  out  one  of  her 
brother's  words,  which  had  burnt  themselves  into  her 
memory  as  they  were  spoken.  But  when  she  was  at 
the  end  of  the  vision,  she  paused;  the  rest  came  too 
vividly  before  her  to  be  uttered,  and  she  sat  looking 
at  the  distance,  almost  unconscious  for  the  moment 
that  Tito  was  near  her.  His  mind  was  at  ease  now; 
that  vague  vision  had  passed  over  him  like  white  mist, 
and  left  no  mark.  But  he  was  silent,  expecting  her  to 
speak  again. 

[   ^62   ] 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA 

"I  took  it,"  she  went  on,  as  if  Tito  had  been  read- 
ing her  thoughts;  "I  took  the  crucifix;  it  is  down  below 
in  my  bedroom." 

"And  now,  my  Romola,"  said  Tito,  entreatingly, 
"you  will  banish  these  ghastly  thoughts.  The  vision 
was  an  ordinary  monkish  vision,  bred  of  fasting  and 
fanatical  ideas.  It  surely  has  no  weight  with  you." 

"No,  Tito;  no.  But  poor  Dino,  he  believed  it  was 
a  divine  message.  It  is  strange,"  she  went  on  meditat- 
ively, "this  life  of  men  possessed  with  fervid  beliefs 
that  seem  like  madness  to  their  fellow  beings.  Dino 
was  not  a  vulgar  fanatic;  and  that  Era  Girolamo  —  his 
very  voice  seems  to  have  penetrated  me  with  a  sense 
that  there  is  some  truth  in  what  moves  them:  some 
truth  of  which  I  know  nothing." 

"It  was  only  because  your  feelings  were  highly 
wrought,  my  Romola.  Your  brother's  state  of  mind 
was  no  more  than  a  form  of  that  theosophy  which  has 
been  the  common  disease  of  excitable  dreamy  minds 
in  all  ages;  the  same  ideas  that  your  father's  old  an- 
tagonist, Marsilo  Ficino,  pores  over  in  the  New  Platon- 
ists ;  only  your  brother's  passionate  nature  drove  him  to 
act  out  what  other  men  write  and  talk  about.  And 
for  Era  Girolamo,  he  is  simply  a  narrow-minded  monk, 
with  a  gift  of  preaching  and  infusing  terror  into  the  mul- 
titude. Any  words  or  any  voice  would  have  shaken 
you  at  that  moment.  When  your  mind  has  had  a  little 
repose,  you  will  judge  of  such  things  as  you  have  al- 
ways done  before." 

"  Not  about  poor  Dino,"  said  Romola.  "  I  was  angry 
with  him;  my  heart  seemed  to  close  against  him  while 
[   263   ] 


ROMOLA 

he  was  speaking;  but  since  then  I  have  thought  less 
of  what  was  in  my  own  mind  and  more  of  what  was  in 
his.  Oh,  Tito !  it  was  very  piteous  to  see  his  young  hfe 
coming  to  an  end  in  that  way.  That  yearning  look  at 
the  crucifix  when  he  was  gasping  for  breath  —  I  can 
never  forget  it.  Last  night  I  looked  at  the  crucifix 
a  long  while,  and  tried  to  see  that  it  would  help  him, 
until  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  by  the  lamplight  as  if  the 
suffering  face  shed  pity." 

"My  Romola,  promise  me  to  resist  such  thoughts; 
they  are  fit  for  sickly  nuns,  not  for  my  golden-tressed 
Aurora,  who  looks  made  to  scatter  all  such  twilight 
fantasies.  Try  not  to  think  of  them  now;  we  shall  not 
long  be  alone  together." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  tender  be- 
seeching, and  he  turned  her  face  towards  him  with 
a  gentle  touch  of  his  right  hand. 

Romola  had  had  her  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the 
arched  opening,  but  she  had  not  seen  the  distant  hill; 
she  had  all  the  while  been  in  the  chapter-house,  looking 
at  the  pale  images  of  sorrow  and  death. 

Tito's  touch  and  beseeching  voice  recalled  her;  and 
now  in  the  warm  sunlight  she  saw  that  rich  dark  beauty 
which  seemed  to  gather  round  it  all  images  of  joy  — 
purple  vines  festooned  between  the  elms,  the  strong 
corn  perfecting  itself  under  the  vibrating  heat,  bright 
winged  creatures  hurrying  and  resting  among  the  flowers, 
round  limbs  beating  the  earth  in  gladness  with  cymbals 
held  aloft,  light  melodies  chanted  to  the  thrilling  rhythm 
of  strings  —  all  objects  and  all  sounds  that  tell  of  Na- 
ture revelling  in  her  force.  Strange,  bewildering  trans- 
[   264   ] 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA 

ition  from  those  pale  images  of  sorrow  and  death  to 
this  bright  youthfulness,  as  of  a  sun-god  who  knew 
nothing  of  night!  What  thought  could  reconcile  that 
worn  anguish  in  her  brother's  face  —  that  straining 
after  something  invisible  —  with  this  satisfied  strength 
and  beauty,  and  make  it  intelligible  that  they  belonged 
to  the  same  world  ?  Or  was  there  never  any  reconcil- 
ing of  them,  but  only  a  blind  worship  of  clashing  deities, 
first  in  mad  joy  and  then  in  wailing  ?  Romola  for 
the  first  time  felt  this  questioning  need  like  a  sudden 
uneasy  dizziness  and  want  of  something  to  grasp;  it  was 
an  experience  hardly  longer  than  a  sigh,  for  the  eager 
theorizing  of  ages  is  compressed,  as  in  a  seed,  in  the 
momentary  want  of  a  single  mind.  But  there  was  no 
answer  to  meet  the  need,  and  it  vanished  before  the 
returning  rush  of  young  sympathy  with  the  glad  loving 
beauty  that  beamed  upon  her  in  new  radiance,  like 
the  dawn  after  we  have  looked  away  from  it  to  the  grey 
west. 

"Your  mind  lingers  apart  from  our  love,  my  Rom- 
ola," Tito  said,  with  a  soft  reproachful  murmur.  "It 
seems  a  forgotten  thing  to  you." 

She  looked  at  the  beseeching  eyes  in  silence,  till  the 
sadness  all  melted  out  of  her  own. 

"My  joy!"  she  said,  in  her  full  clear  voice. 

"Do  you  really  care  for  me  enough,  then,  to  banish 
those  chill  fancies,  or  shall  you  always  be  suspecting 
me  as  the  Great  Tempter  ?  "  said  Tito,  with  his  bright 
smile. 

"  How  should  I  not  care  for  you  more  than  for  everj'- 
tbing  eke  ?  Everything  I  had  felt  before  in  all  my  life 
[   2G5   ] 


</ 


ROMOLA 

—  about  my  father,  and  about  my  loneliness  —  was 
a  preparation  to  love  you.  You  would  laugh  at  me, 
Tito,  if  you  knew  what  sort  of  man  I  used  to  think 
I  should  marry  —  some  scholar  with  deep  lines  in  his 
face,  like  Alamanno  Rinuccini,  and  with  rather  grey 
hair,  who  would  agree  with  my  father  in  taking  the  side 
of  the  Aristotelians,  and  be  willing  to  live  with  him. 
I  used  to  think  about  the  love  I  read  of  in  the  poets, 
but  I  never  dreamed  that  anything  like  that  could 
happen  to  me  here  in  Florence  in  our  old  librar}'.  And 
then  you  came,  Tito,  and  were  so  much  to  my  father, 
and  I  began  to  believe  that  life  could  be  happy  for  me 
too." 

"My  goddess!  is  there  any  woman  like  you?"  said 
Tito,  with  a  mixture  of  fondness  and  wondering  ad- 
miration at  the  blended  majesty  and  simplicity  in  her. 

"  But,  dearest,"  he  went  on,  rather  timidly,  "  if  you 
minded  more  about  our  marriage,  you  would  per- 
suade your  father  and  Messer  Bernardo  not  to  think 
of  any  more  delays.  But  you  seem  not  to  mind  about 
it." 

"Yes,  Tito,  I  will,  I  do  mind.  But  I  am  sure  my 
godfather  will  urge  more  delay  now,  because  of  Dino's 
death.  He  has  never  agreed  with  my  father  about 
disowning  Dino,  and  you  know  he  has  always  said  that 
we  ought  to  wait  until  you  have  been  at  least  a  year 
in  Florence.  Do  not  think  hardly  of  my  godfather.  I 
know  he  is  prejudiced  and  narrow,  but  yet  he  is  very 
noble.  He  has  often  said  that  it  is  folly  in  my  father 
to  want  to  keep  his  librar}'  apart,  that  it  may  bear  his 
name;  yet  he  would  try  to  get  my  father's  wish  carried 
[   266   ] 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA 

out.  /  That  seems  to  me  very  great  and  noble  —  that 
power  of  respecting  a  feeling  which  he  does  not  share 
or  understand."   j 

"I  have  no  rancour  against  Messer  Bernardo  for 
thinking  you  too  precious  for  me,  my  Romola,"  said 
Tito:  and  that  was  true.  "But  your  father,  then, 
knows  of  his  son's  death  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  —  I  could  not  help  it.  I  told  him 
where  I  had  been,  and  that  I  had  seen  Dino  die;  but 
nothing  else;  and  he  has  commanded  me  not  to  speak 
of  it  again.  But  he  has  been  very  silent  this  morning, 
and  has  had  those  restless  movements  which  always 
go  to  my  heart;  they  look  as  if  he  were  trying  to  get 
outside  the  prison  of  his  blindness.  Let  us  go  to  him 
now.  I  had  persuaded  him  to  try  to  sleep,  because  he 
slept  little  in  the  night.  Your  voice  will  soothe  him, 
Tito:  it  always  does." 

"And  not  one  kiss  ?  I  have  not  had  one,"  said  Tito, 
in  his  gentle  reproachful  tone,  which  gave  him  an  air 
of  dependence  very  charming  in  a  creature  with  those 
rare  gifts  that  seem  to  excuse  presumption. 

The  sweet  pink  blush  spread  itself  with  the  quick- 
ness of  light  over  Romola's  face  and  neck  as  she  bent 
towards  him.  It  seemed  impossible  that  their  kisses 
could  ever  become  common  things. 

"  Let  us  walk  once  round  the  loggia,"  said  Romola, 
"before  we  go  down." 

"There  is  something  grim  and  grave  to  me  always 

about  Florence,"  said  Tito,  as  they  paused  in  the  front 

of  the  house,  where  they  could  see  over  the  opposite 

roofs  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  "and  even  in  its 

[   2G7   ] 


ROMOLA 

merriment  there  is  something  shrill  and  hard  —  biting 
rather  than  gay.  I  wish  we  Hved  in  Southern  Italy, 
where  thought  is  broken,  not  by  weariness,  but  by  de- 
licious languors  such  as  never  seem  to  come  over  the 
'ingenia  acerrima  Florentina.'  I  should  like  to  see 
you  under  that  southern  sun,  lying  among  the  flowers, 
subdued  into  mere  enjoyment,  while  I  bent  over  you 
and  touched  the  lute  and  sang  to  you  some  little  un- 
conscious strain  that  seemed  all  one  with  the  light  and 
the  warmth.  You  have  never  known  that  happiness 
of  the  nymphs,  my  Romola." 

"No;  but  I  have  dreamed  of  it  often  since  you 
came,  I  am  very  thirsty  for  a  deep  draught  of  joy  — 
for  a  life  all  bright  like  you.  But  we  will  not  think  of  it 
now,  Tito ;  it  seems  to  me  as  if  there  would  always  be 
pale  sad  faces  among  the  flowers,  and  eyes  that  look  in 
vain.    Let  us  go." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
THE  PORTRAIT 

WHEN  Tito  left  the  Via  de'  Bardi  that  day  in  exult- 
ant satisfaction  at  finding  himself  thoroughly 
free  from  the  threatened  peril,  his  thoughts,  no  longer 
claimed  by  the  immediate  presence  of  Romola  and 
her  father,  recurred  to  those  futile  hours  of  dread  in 
which  he  was  conscious  of  having  not  only  felt  but 
acted  as  he  would  not  have  done  if  he  had  had  a  truer 
foresight.  He  would  not  have  parted  with  his  ring ; 
for  Romola,  and  others  to  whom  it  was  a  familiar  ob- 
ject, would  be  a  little  struck  with  the  apparent  sordid- 
ness  of  parting  with  a  gem  he  had  professedly  cherished, 
unless  he  feigned  as  a  reason  the  desire  to  make  some 
special  gift  with  the  purchase-money ;  and  Tito  had  at 
that  moment  a  nauseating  weariness  of  simulation. 
He  was  well  out  of  the  possible  consequences  that 
might  have  fallen  on  him  from  that  initial  deception, 
and  it  was  no  longer  a  load  on  his  mind;  kind  fortune 
had  brought  him  immunity,  and  he  thought  it  was  only 
fair  that  she  should.  Who  was  hurt  by  it  ?  The  re- 
sults to  Baldassarre  were  too  problematical  to  be  taken 
into  account.  But  he  wanted  now  to  be  free  from  any 
hidden  shackles  that  would  gall  him,  though  ever  so 
little,  under  his  ties  to  Romola.  He  was  not  aware  that 
that  very  delight  in  immunity  which  prompted  resolu- 
tions not  to  entangle  himself  again  was  deadening 
[   269   ] 


ROMOLA 

the  senibilities  which  alone  could  save  him  from  en- 

Ktanglement. 

But,  after  all,  the  sale  of  the  ring  was  a  slight  matter. 
Was  it  also  a  slight  matter  that  little  Tessa  was  under 
a  delusion  which  would  doubtless  jSll  her  small  head 
with  expectations  doomed  to  disappointment?  Should 
he  try  to  see  the  little  thing  alone  again  and  undeceive 
her  at  once,  or  should  he  leave  the  disclosure  to  time 
and  chance  ?  Happy  dreams  are  pleasant,  and  they 
easily  come  to  an  end  with  daylight  and  the  stir  of  life. 
The  sweet,  pouting,  innocent,  round  thing!  It  was 
impossible  not  to  think  of  her.  Tito  thought  he  should 
like  sometime  to  take  her  a  present  that  would  please 
her,  and  just  learn  if  her  stepfather  treated  her  more 
cruelly  now  her  mother  was  dead.  Or,  should  he  at 
once  undeceive  Tessa  and  then  tell  Romola  about  her, 
so  that  they  might  find  some  happier  lot  for  the  poor 
thing?  No:  that  unfortunate  httle  incident  of  the  cer- 
retano  and  the  marriage,  and  his  allowing  Tessa  to  part 

,*  from  him  in  delusion,  must  never  be  known  to  Romola, 
and  since  no  enlightenment  could  expel  it  from  Tessa's 
mind,  there  would  always  be  a  risk  of  betrayal ;  besides 
even  little  Tessa  might  have  some  gall  in  her  when 
she  found  herself  disappointed  in  her  love  —  yes,  she 
must  be  a  little  in  love  with  him,  and  that  might  make 
it  well  that  he  should  not  sec  her  again.  Yet  it  was  a 
trifling  adventure  such  as  a  country  girl  would  perhaps 
ponder  on  till  some  ruddy  contadino  made  acceptable 
love  to  her,  when  she  would  break  her  resolution  of 
secrecy  and  get  at  the  truth  that  she  was  free.  Dunque 
—  good-bye,  Tessa!  kindest  wishes!  Tito  had  made 
[   270   ] 


THE  PORTRAIT 

up  his  mind  that  the  silly  little  aflFair  of  the  cerretano 
should  have  no  further  consequences  for  himself;  and 
people  are  apt  to  think  that  resolutions  taken  on  their 
own  behalf  will  be  firm.  As  for  the  fifty-five  florins,  the 
purchase-money  of  the  ring,  Tito  had  made  up  his 
mind  what  to  do  with  some  of  them;  he  would  carry 
out  a  pretty  ingenious  thought  which  would  set  him 
more  at  ease  in  accounting  for  the  absence  of  his  ring 
to  Romola,  and  would  also  serve  him  as  a  means  of 
guarding  her  mind  from  the  recurrence  of  those  monkish 
fancies  which  were  especially  repugnant  to  him;  and 
with  this  thought  in  his  mind,  he  went  to  the  Via  Gual- 
fonda  to  find  Piero  di  Cosimo,  the  artist  who  at  that 
time  was  pre-eminent  in  the  fantastic  mythological 
design  which  Tito's  purpose  required. 

Entering  the  court  on  which  Piero's  dwelling  opened, 
Tito  found  the  heavy  iron  knocker  on  the  door  thickly 
bound  round  with  wool  and  ingeniously  fastened 
with  cords.  Remembering  the  painter's  practice  of 
stuffing  his  ears  against  obtrusive  noises,  Tito  was  not 
much  surprised  at  this  mode  of  defence  against  visitors* 
thunder,  and  betook  himself  first  to  tapping  modestly 
with  his  knuckles,  and  then  to  a  more  importunate 
attempt  to  shake  the  door.  In  vain!  Tito  was  mov- 
ing away,  blaming  himself  for  wasting  his  time  on  this 
visit,  instead  of  waiting  till  he  saw  the  painter  again 
at  Nello's,  when  a  little  girl  entered  the  court  with  a 
basket  of  eggs  on  her  arm,  went  up  to  the  door,  and 
standing  on  tiptoe,  pushed  up  a  small  iron  plate  that  ran 
in  grooves,  and  putting  her  mouth  to  the  aperture  thus 
disclosed,  called  out  in  a  piping  voice,  "  Messer  Piero!" 
[   271    ] 


ROMOLA 

In  a  few  moments  Tito  heard  the  sound  of  bolts, 
the  door  opened,  and  Piero  presented  himself  in  a  red 
night-cap  and  a  loose  brown  serge  tunic,  with  sleeves 
rolled  up  to  the  shoulder.  He  darted  a  look  of  surprise 
at  Tito,  but  without  further  notice  of  him  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  take  the  basket  from  the  child,  re-entered 
the  house,  and  presently  returning  with  the  empty 
basket,  said,  "  How  much  to  pay  ?  " 

"Two  grossoni,  Messer  Piero;  they  are  all  ready 
boiled,  my  mother  says." 

Piero  took  the  coin  out  of  the  leathern  scarsella  at 
his  belt,  and  the  little  maiden  trotted  away,  not  with- 
out a  few  upward  glances  of  awed  admiration  at  the 
surprising  young  signor. 

Piero's  glance  was  much  less  complimentary  as  he 
sai(f^ — 

"What  do  you  want  at  my  door,  Messer  Greco? 
I  saw  you  this  morning  at  Nello's;  if  you  had  asked 
me  then,  I  could  have  told  you  that  I  see  no  man  in 
this  house  without  knowing  his  business  and  agree- 
ing with  him  beforehand." 

"Pardon,  Messer  Piero,"  said  Tito,  with  his  imper- 
turbable good-humour;  "I  acted  without  sufficient 
reflection.  I  remembered  nothing  but  your  admir- 
able skill  in  inventing  pretty  caprices,  when  a  sudden 
desire  for  something  of  that  sort  prompted  me  to  come 
to  you." 

The  painter's  manners  were  too  notoriously  odd  to 

all  the  world  for  this  reception  to  be  held  a  special 

affront;  but  even  if  Tito  had  suspected  any  offensive 

intention,  the  impulse  to  resentment  would  have  been 

[   272   ] 


THE  PORTRAIT 

less  strong  in  him  than  the  desire  to  conquer  good 
wiU. 

Piero  made  a  grimace  which  was  habitual  with  him 
when  he  was  spoken  to  with  flattering  suavity.  He 
grinned,  stretched  out  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
pressed  down  his  brows,  so  as  to  defy  any  divination 
of  his  feelings  under  that  kind  of  stroking. 

"And  what  may  that  need  be?"  he  said,  after 
a  moment's  pause.  In  his  heart  he  was  tempted  by  the 
hinted  opportunity  of  applying  his  invention. 

"I  want  a  very  delicate  miniature  device  taken  from 
certain  fables  of  the  poets,  which  you  will  know  how 
to  combine  for  me.  It  must  be  painted  on  a  wooden 
case  —  I  will  show  you  the  size  —  in  the  form  of  a 
triptych.  The  inside  may  be  simple  gilding:  it  is  on 
the  outside  I  want  the  device.  It  is  a  favourite  su^^ject 
with  you  Florentines  —  the  triumph  of  Bacchus  and 
Ariadne ;  but  I  want  it  treated  in  a  new  way.  A  story 
in  Ovid  will  give  you  the  necessary  hints.  The  young 
Bacchus  must  be  seated  in  a  ship,  his  head  bound  with 
clusters  of  grapes,  and  a  spear  entwined  with  vine- 
leaves  in  his  hand:  dark-berried  ivy  must  wind  about 
the  masts  and  sails,  the  oars  must  be  thyrsi,  and  flowers 
must  wreathe  themselves  about  the  poop;  leopards  and 
tigers  must  he  crouching  before  him,  and  dolphins 
must  be  sporting  round.  But  I  want  to  have  the  fair- 
haired  Ariadne  with  him,  made  immortal  with  her  golden 
crown  —  that  is  not  in  Ovid's  story,  but  no  matter, 
you  will  conceive  it  all  —  and  above  there  must  be 
young  Loves,  such  as  you  know  how  to  paint,  shooting 
with  roses  at  the  points  of  their  arrows  — " 
[   273   ] 


ROMOLA 

"Say  no  more!"  said  Piero.  "I  have  Ovid  in  the  vul- 
gar tongue.  Find  me  the  passage.  I  love  not  to  be 
choked  with  other  men's  thoughts.  You  may  come  in." 

Piero  led  the  way  through  the  first  room,  where  a 
basket  of  eggs  was  deposited  on  the  open  hearth,  near 
a  heap  of  broken  egg-shells  and  a  bank  of  ashes.  In 
strange  keeping  with  that  sordid  litter,  there  was  a  low 
bedstead  of  carved  ebony,  covered  carelessly  with  a 
piece  of  rich  oriental  carpet,  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
served  to  cover  the  steps  to  a  Madonna's  throne;  and 
a  carved  cassone,  or  large  chest,  with  painted  devices  on 
its  sides  and  lid.  There  was  hardly  any  other  furniture  in 
the  large  room,  except  casts,  wooden  steps,  easels,  and 
rough  boxes,  all  festooned  with  cobwebs. 

The  next  room  was  still  larger,  but  it  was  also  much 
more  crowded.  Apparently  Piero  was  keeping  the  festa, 
for  the  double  door  underneath  the  window  which  ad- 
mitted the  painter's  light  from  above  was  thrown  open, 
and  showed  a  garden,  or  rather  thicket,  in  which  fig  trees 
and  vines  grew  in  tangled  trailing  wildness  among  nettles 
and  hemlocks,  and  a  tall  cypress  lifted  its  dark  head 
from  a  stifling  mass  of  yellowish  mulbern,'  leaves.  It 
seemed  as  if  that  dank  luxuriance  had  begun  to  pene- 
trate even  within  the  walls  of  the  wide  and  lofty  room; 
for  in  one  corner,  amidst  a  confused  heap  of  carved  mar- 
ble fragments  and  rusty  armour,  tufts  of  long  grass  and 
dark  feathery  fennel  had  made  their  way,  and  a  large 
stone  vase,  tilted  on  one  side,  seemed  to  be  pouring  out 
the  ivy  that  streamed  around.  All  about  the  walls  hung 
pen  and  oil  sketches  of  fantastic  sea  monsters;  dances 
of  satyrs  and  maenads;  Saint  Margaret's  resurrection 
[   274   ] 


THE  PORTRAIT 

out  of  the  devouring  dragon ;  Madonnas  with  the  super- 
nal light  upon  them;  studies  of  plants  and  grotesque 
heads ;  and  on  irregular  rough  shelves  a  few  books  were 
scattered  among  great  drooping  bunches  of  corn,  bul- 
locks' horns,  pieces  of  dried  honeycomb,  stones  with 
patches  of  rare-coloured  lichen,  skulls  and  bones,  pea- 
cocks' feathers,  and  large  birds'  wings.  Rising  from 
amongst  the  dirty  litter  of  the  floor  were  lay  figures:  one 
in  the  frock  of  a  Vallombrosan  monk,  strangely  sur- 
mounted by  a  helmet  with  barred  visor,  another  smoth- 
ered with  brocade  and  skins  hastily  tossed  over  it. 
Amongst  this  heterogeneous  still  life,  several  speckled 
and  white  pigeons  were  perched  or  strutting,  too  tame 
to  fly  at  the  entrance  of  men;  three  corpulent  toads 
were  crawling  in  an  intimate  friendly  way  near  the 
door-stone;  and  a  white  rabbit,  apparently  the  model 
for  that  which  was  frightening  Cupid  in  the  picture 
of  Mars  and  Venus  placed  on  the  central  easel,  was 
twitching  its  nose  with  much  content  on  a  box  full  of 
bran. 

"  And  now,  Messer  Greco,"  said  Piero,  making  a  sign 
to  Tito  that  he  might  sit  down  on  a  low  stool  near  the 
door,  and  then  standing  over  him  with  folded  arms, 
"  don't  be  trying  to  see  everything  at  once,  like  Messer 
Domeneddio,  but  let  me  know  how  large  you  would 
have  this  same  triptych." 

Tito  indicated  the  required  dimensions,  and  Piero 
marked  them  on  a  piece  of  j)aper. 

"And  now  for  the  book,"  said  Piero,  reaching  down 
a  manuscript  volume. 

"There's  nothing  about  the  Ariadne  there,"  said 
{  275.  ] 


ROMOLA 

Tito,  giving  him  the  passage;  "but  you  will  remember 
I  want  the  crowned  Ariadne  by  the  side  of  the  young 
Bacchus:  she  must  have  golden  hair." 

" Ha!"  said  Piero,  abruptly,  pursing  up  his  lips  again. 
"  And  you  want  them  to  be  likenesses,  eh  ?  "  he  added, 
looking  down  into  Tito's  face. 

Tito  laughed  and  blushed.  "I  know  you  are  great 
at  portraits,  Messer  Piero ;  but  I  could  not  ask  Ariadne 
to  sit  for  you,  because  the  painting  is  a  secret." 

"There  it  is!  I  want  her  to  sit  to  me.  Giovanni 
Vespucci  wants  me  to  paint  him  a  picture  of  (Edipus 
and  Antigone  at  Colonos,  as  he  has  expounded  it  to  me : 
I  have  a  fancy  for  the  subject,  and  I  want  Bardo  and 
his  daugther  to  sit  for  it.  Now,  you  ask  them ;  and  then 
I'll  put  the  likeness  into  Ariadne." 

"  Agreed,  if  I  can  prevail  with  them.  And  your  price 
for  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  ?  " 

"Bale!  If  you  get  them  to  let  me  paint  them,  that 
will  pay  me.  I  'd  rather  not  have  your  money :  you  may 
pay  for  the  case." 

"  And  when  shall  I  sit  for  you  ?  "  said  Tito ;  "  for  if  we 
have  one  likeness,  we  must  have  two." 

"  I  don't  want  your  likeness ;  I  've  got  it  already," 
said  Piero,  "  only  I  've  made  you  look  frightened.  I  must 
take  the  fright  out  of  it  for  Bacchus." 

As  he  was  speaking,  Piero  laid  down  the  book  and 
went  to  look  among  some  paintings,  propped  with  their 
faces  against  the  wall.  He  returned  with  an  oil  sketch 
in  his  hand. 

"  I  call  this  as  good  a  bit  of  portrait  as  I  ever  did," 
he  said,  looking  at  it  as  he  advanced.  "  Yours  is  a  face 
[   276   ] 


THE  PORTRAIT 

that  expresses  fear  well,  because  it 's  naturally  a  bright 
one.  I  noticed  it  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  The  rest  of 
the  picture  is  hardly  sketched ;  but  I  've  painted  you  in 
thoroughly." 

Piero  turned  the  sketch,  and  held  it  towards  Tito's 
eyes.  He  saw  himself  with  his  right  hand  uplifted, 
holding  a  winecup,  in  the  attitude  of  triumphant  joy, 
but  with  his  face  turned  away  from  the  cup  with  an 
expression  of  such  intense  fear  in  the  dilated  eyes  and 
pallid  lips  that  he  felt  a  cold  stream  through  his  veins 
as  if  he  were  being  thrown  into  sympathy  with  his 
imaged  self. 

"You  are  beginning  to  look  like  it  already,"  said 
Piero,  with  a  short  laugh,  moving  the  picture  away  again. 
"  He 's  seeing  a  ghost  —  that  fine  young  man.  I  shall 
finish  it  some  day,  when  I  Ve  settled  what  sort  of  ghost 
is  the  most  terrible  —  whether  it  should  look  solid,  like 
a  dead  man  come  to  life,  or  half -transparent,  like  a  mist." 

Tito,  rather  ashamed  of  himself  for  a  sudden  sensi- 
tiveness strangely  opposed  to  his  usual  easy  self-com- 
mand, said  carelessly,  — 

"That  is  a  subject  after  your  own  heart,  Messer 
Piero  —  a  revel  interrupted  by  a  ghost.  You  seem  to 
love  the  blending  of  the  terrible  with  the  gay.  I  suppose 
that  is  the  reason  your  shelves  are  so  well  furnished 
with  death's  heads,  while  you  are  painting  those  roguish 
Loves  who  are  running  away  with  the  armour  of  Mars. 
I  begin  to  think  you  are  a  Cjnic  philosopher  in  the 
pleasant  disguise  of  a  cunning  painter." 

"Not  I,  Messer  Greco;  a  philosopher  is  the  last  sort 
of  animal  I  should  choose  to  resemble.  I  find  it  enough 
[  277   ] 


ROMOLA 

to  live,  without  spinning  lies  to  account  for  life.  Fowls 
cackle,  asses  bray,  women  chatter,  and  philosophers 
spin  false  reasons  —  that 's  the  effect  the  sight  of  the 
world  brings  out  of  them.  Well,  I  am  an  animal  that 
paints  instead  of  cackling,  or  braying,  or  spinning  lies. 
And  now,  I  think,  our  business  is  done ;  you  '11  keep  t  > 
your  side  of  the  bargain  about  the  (Edipus  and  Anti- 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Tito  —  on  this  strong  hint, 
immediately  moving  towards  the  door. 

"  And  you  '11  let  me  know  at  Nello's.  No  need  to  come 
here  again." 

"I  understand,"  said  Tito,  laughingly,  lifting  his 
hand  in  sign  of  friendly  parting. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  HOPE 

MESSER  Bernardo  del  Nero  was  as  inexorable  as 
Romola  had  expected  in  bis  advice  that  the  mar- 
riage should  be  deferred  till  Easter,  and  in  this  matter 
Bardo  was  entirely  under  the  ascendancy  of  his  saga- 
cious and  practical  friend.  Nevertheless,  Bernardo  him- 
self, though  he  was  as  far  as  ever  from  any  susceptibility 
to  the  personal  fascination  in  Tito  which  was  felt  by 
others,  could  not  altogether  resist  that  argument  of 
success  which  is  always  powerful  with  men  of  the  world. 
Tito  was  making  his  way  rapidly  in  high  quarters. 
He  was  especially  growing  in  favour  with  the  young 
Cardinal  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  who  had  even  spoken 
of  Tito's  forming  part  of  his  learned  retinue  on  an 
approaching  journey  to  Rome;  and  the  bright  young 
Greek,  who  had  a  tongue  that  was  always  ready  without 
ever  being  quarrelsome,  was  more  and  more  wished  for 
at  gay  suppers  in  the  Via  Larga,  and  at  Florentine  games 
in  which  he  had  no  pretension  to  excel,  and  could  ad- 
mire the  incomparable  skill  of  Piero  de'  Medici  in  the 
most  graceful  manner  in  the  world.  By  an  unfailing 
sequence,  Tito's  reputation  as  an  agreeable  companion 
in  "magnificent"  society  made  his  learning  and  talent 
appear  more  lustrous:  and  he  was  really  accomplished 
enough  to  prevent  an  exaggerated  estimate  from  being 
hazardous  to  him.  Messer  Bernardo  had  old  prejudices 
[   279   ] 


ROMOLA 

and  attachments  which  now  began  to  argue  down  the 
newer  and  feebler  prejudice  against  the  young  Greek 
stranger  who  was  rather  too  supple.  To  the  old  Floren- 
tine it  was  impossible  to  despise  the  recommendation 
of  standing  well  with  the  best  Florentine  families,  and 
since  Tito  began  to  be  thoroughly  received  into  that 
circle  whose  views  were  the  unquestioned  standard  of 
social  value,  it  seemed  irrational  not  to  admit  that  there 
was  no  longer  any  check  to  satisfaction  in  the  prospect 
of  such  a  son-in-law  for  Bardo,  and  such  a  husband  for 
Romola.  It  was  undeniable  that  Tito's  coming  had  been 
the  dawn  of  a  new  life  for  both  father  and  daughter,  and 
the  first  promise  had  even  been  surpassed.  The  blind 
old  scholar  —  whose  proud  truthfulness  would  never 
enter  into  that  commerce  of  feigned  and  preposterous 
admiration  which,  varied  by  a  corresponding  measure- 
lessness  in  vituperation,  made  the  woof  of  all  learned 
intercourse  —  had  fallen  into  neglect  even  among  his 
fellow  citizens,  and  when  he  was  alluded  to  at  all,  it 
had  long  been  usual  to  say  that,  though  his  blindness 
and  the  loss  of  his  son  were  pitiable  misfortunes,  he  was 
tiresome  in  contending  for  the  value  of  his  own  labours; 
and  that  his  discontent  was  a  little  inconsistent  in 
a  man  who  had  been  openly  regardless  of  religious 
rites,  and  who  in  days  past  had  refused  offers  made  to 
him  from  various  quarters,  on  the  slight  condition 
that  he  would  take  orders,  without  which  it  was  not 
easy  for  patrons  to  provide  for  every  scholar.  But  since 
Tito's  coming,  there  was  no  longer  the  same  monotony 
in  the  thought  that  Bardo's  name  suggested;  the  old 
inan,  it  was  understood,  had  left  off  his  plaints,  and  the 
[  280   ] 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  HOPE 

fair  daughter  was  no  longer  to  be  shut  up  in  dowerless 
pride,  waiting  for  a  parentado.  The  winning  manners 
and  growing  favour  of  the  handsome  Greek  who  was 
expected  to  enter  into  the  double  relation  of  son  and 
husband  helped  to  make  the  new  interest  a  thoroughly 
friendly  one,  and  it  was  no  longer  a  rare  occurrence 
when  a  visitor  enlivened  the  quiet  library.  Elderly  men 
came  from  that  indefinite  prompting  to  renew  former 
intercourse  which  arises  when  an  old  acquaintance 
begins  to  be  newly  talked  about;  and  young  men  whom 
Tito  had  asked  leave  to  bring  once  found  it  easy  to  go 
again  when  they  overtook  him  on  his  way  to  the  Via 
de'  Bardi,  and,  resting  their  hands  on  his  shoulder,  fell 
into  easy  chat  with  him.  For  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at 
Romola's  beauty,  to  see  her,  like  old  Firenzuola's  type 
of  womanly  majesty,  "  sitting  with  a  certain  grandeur, 
speaking  with  gravity,  smiling  with  modesty,  and  casting 
around,  as  it  were,  an  odour  of  queenliness  " ;  *  and  she 
seemed  to  unfold  like  a  strong  white  lily  under  this  genial 
breath  of  admiration  and  homage;  it  was  all  one  to  her 
with  her  new  bright  life  in  Tito's  love. 

Tito  had  even  been  the  means  of  strengthening  the 
hope  in  Bardo's  mind  that  he  might  before  his  death 
receive  the  longed-forsccurity  concerning  his  library:  that 
it  should  not  be  merged  in  another  collection;  that  it 
should  not  be  transferred  to  a  body  of  monks,  and  be 
called  by  the  name  of  a  monastery;  but  that  it  should 

*  "Quando  una  donna  h  prande,  ben  fomiata,  porta  lien  sua  persona, 
siede  con  una  certa  prandezza,  paria  con  pravitA,  ride  con  modestia, 
J  finalmente  petta  quasi  un  odor  di  Repina;  allora  noi  diciamo  quclla 
lonna  pare  una  maest^,  ella  ha  una  maest^."  —  Fireozuola:  Delia 
Bellezza  delie  Donne. 

[  281    ] 


k 


ROMOLA 

remain  for  ever  the  Bardi  Library,  for  the  use  of  Floren- 
tines. For  the  old  habit  of  trusting  in  the  Medici  could 
not  die  out  while  their  influence  was  still  the  strongest 
lever  in  the  State;  and  Tito,  once  possessing  the  ear  of 
the  Cardinal  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  might  do  more  even 
than  Messer  Bernardo  towards  winning  the  desired 
interest,  for  he  could  demonstrate  to  a  learned  audience 
the  peculiar  value  of  Bardi 's  collection.  Tito  himself 
talked  sanguinely  of  such  a  result,  willing  to  cheer  the 
old  man,  and  conscious  that  Romola  repaid  those  gentle 
words  to  her  father  with  a  sort  of  adoration  that  no 
direct  tribute  to  herself  could  have  won  from  her. 

This  question  of  the  library  was  the  subject  of  more 
than  one  discussion  with  Bernardo  del  Nero  when  Christ- 
mas was  turned  and  the  prospect  of  the  marriage  was 
becoming  near  —  but  always  out  of  Bardo's  hearing. 
For  Bardo  nursed  a  vague  belief,  which  they  dared  not 
disturb,  that  his  property,  apart  from  the  library,  was 
adequate  to  meet  all  demands.  He  would  not  even,  ex- 
cept under  a  momentary  pressure  of  angr}"  despondency, 
admit  to  himself  that  the  will  by  which  he  had  disin- 
herited Dino  would  leave  Romola  the  heir  of  nothing 
but  debts;  or  that  he  needed  anything  from  patronage 
beyond  the  security  that  a  separate  locality  should  be 
assigned  to  his  library,  in  return  for  a  deed  of  gift  by 
which  he  made  it  over  to  the  Florentine  Republic. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  Bernardo  to  Romola,  in  a  con- 
sultation they  had  under  the  loggia,  "  that  since  you  are 
to  be  married,  and  Messer  Tito  will  have  a  competent 
income,  we  should  begin  to  wind  up  the  affairs,  and 
ascertain  exactly  the  sum  that  would  be  necessary  to 
[   282   ] 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  HOPE 

save  thfe  library  from  being  touched,  instead  of  letting 
the  debts  accumulate  any  longer.  Your  father  needs 
nothing  but  his  shred  of  mutton  and  his  macaroni  every 
day,  and  I  think  Messer  Tito  may  engage  to  supply 
that  for  the  years  that  remain ;  he  can  let  it  be  in  place 
of  the  mor gen-cap." 

"  Tito  has  always  known  that  my  life  is  bound  up  with 
my  father's,"  said  Romola;  "and  he  is  better  to  my 
father  than  I  am:  he  delights  in  making  him  happy." 

"  Ah,  he 's  not  made  of  the  same  clay  as  other  men,  is 
he  ?  "  said  Bernardo,  smiling.  "  Thy  father  has  thought 
of  shutting  woman's  folly  out  of  thee  by  cramming  thee 
with  Greek  and  Latin;  but  thou  hast  been  as  ready  to 
believe  in  the  first  pair  of  bright  eyes  and  the  first  soft 
words  that  have  come  within  reach  of  thee  as  if  thou 
couldst  say  nothing  by  heart  but  Paternosters,  like  other 
Christian  men's  daughters." 

"Now,  godfather,"  said  Romola,  shaking  her  head 
playfully,  "  as  if  it  were  only  bright  eyes  and  soft  words 
that  made  me  love  Tito !  You  know  better.  You  know 
I  love  my  father  and  you  because  you  are  both  good, 
and  I  love  Tito  too  because  he  is  so  good.  I  see  it,  I  feel 
it,  in  everything  he  says  and  does.  And  if  he  is  hand- 
some, too,  why  should  I  not  love  him  the  better  for 
that?  It  seems  to  me  beauty  is  part  of  the  finished  j/ 
language  by  which  goodness  speaks.  You  know  you 
must  have  been  a  very  handsome  youth,  godfather" 
—  she  looked  up  with  one  of  her  happy,  loving  smiles 
at  the  stately  old  man;  "you  were  about  as  tall  as  Tito, 
and  you  had  very  fine  eyes;  only  you  looked  a  little 
sterner  and  prouder,  and  — " 
[   283   ] 


ROMOLA 

"  And  Romola  likes  to  have  all  the  pride  to  herself  ?  ** 
said  Bernardo,  not  inaccessible  to  this  pretty  coaxing. 
"  However,  it  is  well  that  in  one  way  Tito's  demands  are 
more  modest  than  those  of  any  Florentine  husband  of 
fitting  rank  that  we  should  have  been  likely  to  find  for 
you;  he  wants  no  dowry." 

So  it  was  settled  in  that  way  between  Messer  Bernardo 
del  Nero,  Romola,  and  Tito.  Bardo  assented  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand  when  Bernardo  told  him  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  well  now  to  begin  to  sell  property 
and  clear  off  debts;  being  accustomed  to  think  of  debts 
and  property  as  a  sort  of  thick  wood  that  his  imagination 
never  even  penetrated,  still  less  got  beyond.  And  Tito 
set  about  winning  Messer  Bernardo's  respect  by  inquir- 
ing, with  his  ready  faculty,  into  Florentine  money 
matters,  the  secrets  of  the  Monti  or  public  funds,  the 
values  of  real  property,  and  the  profits  of  banking. 

"  You  will  soon  forget  that  Tito  is  not  a  Florentine, 
godfather,"  said  Romola.  "See  how  he  is  learning 
everything  about  Florence." 

"  It  seems  to  me  he  is  one  of  the  demoni,  who  are  of 
no  particular  countr)%  child,"  said  Bernardo,  smiling. 
"  His  mind  is  a  little  too  nimble  to  be  weighted  with  all 
the  stuff  we  men  carry  about  in  our  hearts." 

Romola  smiled  too,  in  happy  confidence. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

IT  was  the  last  week  of  the  Carnival,  and  the  streets  of 
Florence  were  at  their  fullest  and  noisiest :  there  were 
the  masqued  processions,  chanting  songs,  indispensable 
now  they  had  once  been  introduced  by  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent;  there  was  the  favourite  rigoletto,  or  round 
dance,  footed  "in  piazza"  under  the  blue  frosty  sky; 
there  were  practical  jokes  of  all  sorts,  from  throwing 
comfits  to  throwing  stones  —  especially  stones.  For  the 
boys  and  striplings,  always  a  strong  element  in  Floren- 
tine crowds,  became  at  the  height  of  Carnival-time  as 
loud  and  unmanageable  as  tree-crickets,  and  it  was  their 
immemorial  privilege  to  bar  the  way  with  poles  to  all 
passengers,  until  a  tribute  had  been  paid  towards  fur- 
nishing those  lovers  of  strong  sensations  with  suppers 
and  bonfires:  to  conclude  with  the  standing  enter- 
tainment of  stone- thro  wing,  which  was  not  entirely 
monotonous,  since  the  consequent  maiming  was  various, 
and  it  was  not  always  a  single  person  who  was  killed. 
So  that  the  pleasures  of  the  Carnival  were  of  a  checkered 
kind,  and  if  a  painter  were  called  upon  to  represent  them 
truly,  he  would  have  to  make  a  picture  in  which  there 
would  be  so  much  grossness  and  barbarity  that  it  must 
be  turned  with  its  face  to  the  wall,  except  when  it  was 
taken  down  for  the  grave  historical  purpose  of  justifying 
a  reforming  zeal  which,  in  ignorance  of  the  facts,  might 
[   285   ] 


ROMOLA 

be  unfairly  condemned  for  its  narrowness.  Still  there 
was  much  of  that  more  innocent  picturesque  merriment 
which  is  never  wanting  among  a  people  with  quick 
animal  spirits  and  sensitive  organs:  there  was  not  the 
heavy  sottishness  which  belongs  to  the  thicker  Northern 
blood,  nor  the  stealthy  fierceness  which  in  the  more 
southern  regions  of  the  peninsula  makes  the  brawl  lead 
to  the  dagger-thrust. 

It  was  the  high  morning,  but  the  merr\'  spirits  of  the 
Carnival  were  still  inclined  to  lounge  and  recapitulate 
the  last  night's  jests,  when  Tito  Melema  was  walking  at 
a  brisk  pace  on  the  way  to  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  Young 
Bernardo  Dovizi,  who  now  looks  at  us  out  of  Raphael's 
portrait  as  the  keen-eyed  Cardinal  da  Bibbiena,  was 
with  him;  and,  as  they  went,  they  held  animated  talk 
about  some  subject  that  had  evidently  no  relation  to  the 
sights  and  sounds  through  which  they  were  pushing  their 
way  along  the  Por'  Santa  Maria.  Nevertheless,  as  they 
discussed,  smiled,  and  gesticulated,  they  both,  from  time 
to  time,  cast  quick  glances  around  them,  and  at  the 
turning  towards  the  Lung'  Arno,  leading  to  the  Ponte 
Rubaconte,  Tito  had  become  aware,  in  one  of  these 
rapid  surveys,  that  there  was  some  one  not  far  off  him 
by  whom  he  very  much  desired  not  to  be  recognized  at 
that  moment.  His  time  and  thoughts  were  thoroughly 
preoccupied,  for  he  was  looking  forward  to  a  unique 
occasion  in  his  life:  he  was  preparing  for  his  betrothal, 
which  was  to  take  place  on  the  evening  of  this  very  day. 
The  ceremony  had  been  resolved  upon  rather  suddenly; 
for  although  preparations  towards  the  marriage  had 
been  going  forward  for  some  time  —  chiefly  in  the 
[   286   ] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

application  of  Tito's  florins  to  the  fitting-up  of  rooms  in 
Bardo's  dwelling,  which,  the  library  excepted,  had  al- 
ways been  scantily  furnished  —  it  had  been  intended  to 
defer  both  the  betrotlial  and  the  marriage  until  after 
Easter,  when  Tito's  year  of  probation,  insisted  on  by 
Bernardo  del  Nero,  would  have  been  complete.  But 
when  an  express  proposition  had  come  that  Tito  should 
follow  the  Cardinal  Giovanni  to  Rome  to  help  Bernardo 
Dovizi  with  his  superior  knowledge  of  Greek  in  arrang- 
ing a  library,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  declining 
what  lay  so  plainly  on  the  road  to  advancement,  he  had 
become  urgent  in  his  entreaties  that  the  betrothal  might 
take  place  before  his  departure:  there  would  be  the  less 
delay  before  the  marriage  on  his  return,  and  it  would  be 
less  painful  to  part  if  he  and  Romola  were  outwardly 
as  well  as  inwardly  pledged  to  each  other  —  if  he  had 
a  claim  which  defied  Messer  Bernardo  or  any  one  else 
to  nullify  it.  For  the  betrothal,  at  which  rings  were  ex- 
changed and  mutual  contracts  were  signed,  made  more 
than  half  the  legality  of  marriage,  to  be  completed  on  a 
separate  occasion  by  the  nuptial  benediction.  Romola's 
feeling  had  met  Tito's  in  this  wish,  and  the  consent  of  the 
elders  had  been  won. 

And  now  Tito  was  hastening,  amidst  arrangements 
for  his  departure  the  next  day,  to  snatch  a  morning 
visit  to  Romola,  to  say  and  hear  any  last  words  that 
were  needful  to  be  said  before  their  meeting  for  the 
betrothal  in  the  evening.  It  was  not  a  time  when  any 
recognition  could  be  pleasant  that  was  at  all  likely  to 
detain  him;  still  less  a  recognition  by  Tessa.  And  it 
was  unmistakeably  Tessa  whom  he  had  caught  sight 
[   287   ] 


ROMOLA 

of  moving  along,  with  a  timid  and  forlorn  look,  towards 
that  very  turn  of  the  Lung*  Arno  which  he  was  just 
rounding.  As  he  continued  his  talk  with  the  young 
Dovizi,  he  had  an  uncomfortable  undercurrent  of  con- 
sciousness which  told  him  that  Tessa  had  seen  him  and 
would  certainly  follow  him:  there  was  no  escaping  her 
along  this  direct  road  by  the  Arno,  and  over  the  Ponte 
Rubaconte.  But  she  would  not  dare  to  speak  to  him 
or  approach  him  while  he  was  not  alone,  and  he  would 
continue  to  keep  Dovizi  with  him  till  they  reached 
Bardo's  door.  He  quickened  his  pace,  and  took  up  new 
threads  of  talk;  but  all  the  while  the  sense  that  Tessa 
was  behind  him,  though  he  had  no  physical  evidence 
of  the  fact,  grew  stronger  and  stronger;  it  was  very 
irritating  —  perhaps  all  the  more  so  because  a  certain 
tenderness  and  pity  for  the  poor  little  thing  made  the 
determination  to  escape  without  any  visible  notice  of 
her  a  not  altogether  agreeable  resource.  Yet  Tito 
persevered  and  carried  his  companion  to  the  door, 
cleverly  managing  his  "  addio  "  without  turning  his  face 
in  a  direction  where  it  was  possible  for  him  to  see  an 
importunate  pair  of  blue  eyes;  and  as  he  went  up  the 
stone  steps,  he  tried  to  get  rid  of  unpleasant  thoughts 
by  saying  to  himself  that  after  all  Tessa  might  not  have 
seen  him,  or,  if  she  had,  might  not  have  followed  him. 
But  —  perhaps  because  that  possibility  could  not 
be  relied  on  strongly  —  when  the  visit  was  over,  he 
came  out  of  the  doorway  with  a  quick  step  and  an 
air  of  unconsciousness  as  to  anything  that  might  be 
on  his  right  hand  or  his  left.  Our  eyes  are  so  con- 
structed, however,  that  they  take  in  a  wide  angle  with- 
[   288   ] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

out  asking  any  leave  of  our  will;  and  Tito  knew  that 
there  was  a  little  figure  in  a  white  hood  standing  near 
the  doorway  —  knew  it  quite  well,  before  he  felt  a  hand 
laid  on  his  arm.  It  was  a  real  grasp,  and  not  a  light, 
timid  touch;  for  poor  Tessa,  seeing  his  rapid  step,  had 
started  forward  with  a  desperate  effort.  But  when  he 
stopped  and  turned  towards  her,  her  face  wore  a  fright- 
ened look,  as  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of  her  boldness. 

"Tessa!"  said  Tito,  with  more  sharpness  in  his 
voice  than  she  had  ever  heard  in  it  before.  "  Why  are 
you  here?  You  must  not  follow  me  —  you  must  not 
stand  about  door-places  waiting  for  me." 

Her  blue  eyes  widened  with  tears,  and  she  said 
nothing.  Tito  was  afraid  of  something  worse  than 
ridicule,  if  he  were  seen  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi  with  a 
girlish  contadina  looking  pathetically  at  him.  It  was 
a  street  of  high  silent-looking  dwellings,  not  of  traffic, 
but  Bernardo  del  Nero,  or  some  one  almost  as  danger- 
ous, might  come  up  at  any  moment.  Even  if  it  had  not 
been  the  day  of  his  betrothal,  the  incident  would  have 
been  awkward  and  annoying.    Yet  it  would  be  brutal 

—  it  was  impossible  —  to  drive  Tessa  away  with  harsh 
words.    That  accursed  folly  of  his  with  the  cerretano 

—  that  it  should  have  lain  buried  in  a  quiet  way  for 
months,  and  now  start  up  before  him  as  this  unseason- 
able crop  of  vexation!  He  could  not  speak  harshly, 
but  he  spoke  hurriedly. 

"  Tessa,  I  cannot  —  must  not  talk  to  you  here.  I 
will  go  on  to  the  bridge  and  wait  for  you  there.  Follow 
me  slowly." 

He  turned  and  walked  fast  to  the  Pontc  Rubaconte, 
[   289   ] 


ROMOLA 

and  there  leaned  against  the  wall  of  one  of  the  quaint 
little  houses  that  rise  at  even  distances  on  the  bridge, 
looking  towards  the  way  by  which  Tessa  would  come. 
It  would  have  softened  a  much  harder  heart  than  Tito's 
to  see  the  little  thing  advancing  with  her  round  face 
much  paled  and  saddened  since  he  had  parted  from 
it  at  the  door  of  the  "Nunziata."  Happily  it  was  the 
least  frequented  of  the  bridges,  and  there  were  scarcely 
any  passengers  on  it  at  this  moment.  He  lost  no  time 
in  speaking  as  soon  as  she  came  near  him. 

"Now,  Tessa,  I  have  very  little  time.  You  must 
not  cry.  Why  did  you  follow  me  this  morning?  You 
must  not  do  so  again." 

"I  thought,"  said  Tessa,  speaking  in  a  whisper, 
and  struggling  against  a  sob  that  would  rise  imme- 
diately at  this  new  voice  of  Tito's  —  "I  thought  you 
would  n't  be  so  long  before  you  came  to  take  care  of 
me  again.  And  the  patrigno  beats  me,  and  I  can't 
bear  it  any  longer.  And  always  when  I  come  for  a 
holiday,  I  walk  about  to  find  you,  and  I  can't.  Oh, 
please  don't  send  me  away  from  you  again!  It  has 
been  so  long,  and  I  cry  so  now,  because  you  never 
come  to  me.  I  can't  help  it,  for  the  days  are  so  long, 
and  I  don't  mind  about  the  goats  and  kids,  or  anything 
—  and  I  can't  —  " 

The  sobs  came  fast  now,  and  the  great  tears.  Tito 
felt  that  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  comfort  her. 
Send  her  away  —  yes ;  that  he  must  do,  at  once.  But 
it  was  all  the  more  impossible  to  tell  her  anything  that 
would  leave  her  in  a  state  of  hopeless  grief.  He  saw 
new  trouble  in  the  background,  but  the  difficulty  of  the 
[   290   ] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

moment  was  too  pressing  for  him  to  weigh  distant  con- 
sequences. __ 

"Tessa,  my  little  one,"  he  said  in  his  old  caressing 
tones,  "  you  must  not  cry.  Bear  with  the  cross  fatrigno 
a  little  longer.  I  will  come  back  to  you.  But  I'm  go- 
ing now  to  Rome  —  a  long,  long  way  off.  I  shall  come 
back  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then  I  promise  you  to  come 
and  see  you.  Promise  me  to  be  good  and  wait  for  me." 

It  was  the  well-remembered  voice  again,  and  the 
mere  sound  was  half  enough  to  soothe  Tessa.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  trusting  eyes,  that  still  glit- 
tered with  tears,  sobbing  all  the  while,  in  spite  of  her 
utmost  efforts  to  obey  him.  Again  he  said,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  — 

"  Promise  me,  my  Tessa." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.  "But  you  won't  be  long?" 

"  No,  not  long.  But  I  must  go  now.  And  remember 
what  I  told  you,  Tessa.  Nobody  must  know  that  you 
ever  see  me,  else  you  will  lose  me  for  ever.  And  now, 
when  I  have  left  you,  go  straight  home,  and  never 
follow  me  again.  Wait  till  I  come  to  you.  Good-bye, 
my  little  Tessa:  I  will  come." 

There  was  no  help  for  it;  he  must  turn  and  leave  her 
without  looking  behind  him  to  see  how  she  bore  it, 
for  he  had  no  time  to  spare.  When  he  did  look  round 
he  was  in  the  Via  de'  Benci,  where  there  was  no  seeing 
what  was  happening  on  the  bridge;  but  Tessa  was  too 
trusting  and  obedient  not  to  do  just  what  he  had  told 
her. 

Yes,  the  difficulty  was  at  an  end  for  that  day;  yet 
this  return  of  Tessa  to  him,  at  a  moment  when  it  was 

[   291    J 


ROMOLA 

impossible  for  him  to  put  an  end  to  all  difficulty  with 
her  by  undeceiving  her,  was  an  unpleasant  incident 
to  carry  in  his  memory.  But  Tito's  mind  was  just  now 
thoroughly  penetrated  with  a  hopeful  first  love,  as- 
sociated with  all  happy  prospects  flattering  to  his  am- 
bition ;  and  that  future  necessity  of  grieving  Tessa  could 
be  scarcely  more  to  liim  than  the  far-off  cry  of  some  little 
suffering  animal  buried  in  the  thicket  to  a  merry  caval- 
cade in  the  sunny  plain.  When,  for  the  second  time  that 
day,  Tito  was  hastening  across  the  Ponte  Rubaconte, 
the  thought  of  Tessa  caused  no  perceptible  diminution 
of  his  happiness.  He  was  well  muffled  in  his  mantle, 
less,  perhaps,  to  protect  him  from  the  cold  than  from 
the  additional  notice  that  would  have  been  drawn 
upon  him  by  his  dainty  apparel.  He  leaped  up  the 
stone  steps  by  two  at  a  time,  and  said  hurriedly  to 
Maso,  who  met  him,  — 

"Where  is  the  damigella?" 

"In  the  library;  she  is  quite  ready,  and  Monna 
Brigida  and  Messer  Bernardo  are  aheady  there  with 
Ser  Braccio,  but  none  of  the  rest  of  the  company." 

"Ask  her  to  give  me  a  few  minutes  alone;  I  will 
await  her  in  the  salotto." 

Tito  entered  a  room  which  had  been  fitted  up  in  the 
utmost  contrast  with  the  half-pallid,  half-sombre  tints 
of  the  library.  The  walls  were  brightly  frescoed  with 
"caprices"  of  nymphs  and  loves  sporting  under  the 
blue  among  flowers  and  birds.  The  only  furniture 
besides  the  red  leather  seats  and  the  central  table  were 
two  tall  white  vases,  and  a  young  faun  playing  the 
flute ,  modelled  by  a  promising  youth  named  Michel- 
[   292   ] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

angelo  Buonarotti.  It  was  a  room  that  gave  a  sense 
of  being  in  the  sunny  open  air. 

Tito  kept  his  mantle  round  him,  and  looked  towards 
the  door.  It  was  not  long  before  Romola  entered,  all 
white  and  gold,  more  than  ever  like  a  tall  lily.  Her  white 
silk  garment  was  bound  by  a  golden  girdle,  which  fell 
with  large  tassels;  and  above  that  was  the  rippling  gold 
of  her  hair,  surmounted  by  the  white  mist  of  her  long 
veil,  which  was  fastened  on  her  brow  by  a  band  of  pearls, 
the  gift  of  Bernardo  del  Nero,  and  was  now  parted  off 
her  face  so  that  it  all  floated  backward. 

"Regina  mia!"  said  Tito,  as  he  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it,  still  keeping  his  mantle  round  him.  He 
could  not  help  going  backward  to  look  at  her  again, 
while  she  stood  in  calm  delight,  with  that  exquisite  self- 
consciousness  which  rises  under  the  gaze  of  admiring 
love. 

"Romola,  will  you  show  me  the  next  room  now?" 
said  Tito,  checking  himself  with  the  remembrance  that 
the  time  might  be  short.  "You  said  I  should  see  it 
when  you  had  arranged  ever}i:hing." 

Without  speaking,  she  led  the  way  into  a  long  nar- 
row room,  painted  brightly  like  the  other,  but  only  with 
birds  and  flowers.  The  furniture  in  it  was  all  old;  there 
were  old  faded  objects  for  feminine  use  or  ornament, 
arranged  in  an  open  cabinet  between  the  two  narrow 
windows;  above  the  cabinet  was  the  portrait  of  Rom- 
ola's  mother;  and  below  this,  on  the  top  of  the  cabinet, 
stood  the  crucifix  which  Romola  had  brought  from 
San  Marco. 

"  I  have  brought  something  under  my  mantle,"  said 
[   293   ] 


ROMOLA 

Tito,  smiling;  and  throwing  off  the  large  loose  garment, 
he  showed  the  little  tabernacle  which  had  been  painted 
by  Piero  di  Cosimo.  The  painter  had  carried  out  Tito's 
intention  charmingly,  and  so  far  had  atoned  for  his 
long  delay.  "  Do  you  know  what  this  is  for,  my  Rom- 
ola?"  added  Tito,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  and  lead- 
ing her  towards  the  cabinet.  "  It  is  a  little  shrine,  which 
is  to  hide  away  from  you  for  ever  that  remembrancer  of 
sadness.  You  have  done  with  sadness  now;  and  we 
will  bury  all  images  of  it  —  bury  them  in  a  tomb  of 
joy.   See!" 

A  slight  quiver  passed  across  Romola's  face  as  Tito 
took  hold  of  the  crucifix.  But  she  had  no  wish  to  pre- 
vent his  purpose;  on  the  contrary,  she  herself  wished 
to  subdue  certain  importunate  memories  and  question- 
ings which  still  flitted  like  unexplained  shadows  across 
her  happier  thought. 

He  opened  the  triptych  and  placed  the  crucifix 
within  the  central  space;  then  closing  it  again,  taking 
out  the  key,  and  setting  the  little  tabernacle  in  the  spot 
where  the  crucifix  had  stood,  said,  — 

"Now,  Romola,  look  and  see  if  you  are  satisfied 
with  the  portraits  old  Piero  has  made  of  us.  Is  it  not 
a  dainty  device  ?  and  the  credit  of  choosing  it  is  mine." 

"Ah!  it  is  you — it  is  perfect!"  said  Romola,  looking 
with  moist  joj'ful  eyes  at  the  miniature  Bacchus,  with 
his  purple  clusters.  "  And  I  am  Ariadne,  and  you  are 
crowning  me!  Yes,  it  is  true,  Tito;  you  have  crowned 
my  poor  life." 

They  held  each  other's  hands  while  she  spoke,  and 
both  looked  at  their  imaged  selves.  But  the  reality 
[   294   ] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

was  far  more  beautiful;  she  all  lily-white  and  golden, 
and  he  with  his  dark  glowing  beauty  above  the  purple 
red-bordered  tunic. 

"And  it  was  our  good  strange  Piero  who  painted 
it?"  said  Romola.  "Did  you  put  it  into  his  head  to 
paint  me  as  Antigone,  that  he  might  have  my  hkeness 
for  this?" 

"No,  it  was  he  who  made  my  getting  leave  for  him 
to  paint  you  and  your  father  a  condition  of  his  doing 
this  for  me." 

"  Ah !  I  see  now  what  it  was  you  gave  up  your  precious 
ring  for.  I  perceived  you  had  some  cunning  plan  to 
give  me  pleasure." 

Tito  did  not  blench.  Romola's  little  illusions  about 
himself  had  long  ceased  to  cause  him  anything  but  satis- 
faction.  He  only  smiled  and  said,  — 

"I  might  have  spared  my  ring;  Piero  will  accept  no 
money  from  me;  he  thinks  himself  paid  by  painting 
you.  And  now,  while  I  am  away,  you  will  look  every 
day  at  those  pretty  symbols  of  our  life  together  —  the 
ship  on  the  calm  sea,  and  the  ivy  that  never  withers, 
and  those  Loves  that  have  left  off  wounding  us  and 
shower  soft  petals  that  are  like  our  kisses;  and  the 
leopards  and  tigers,  they  are  the  troubles  of  your  life 
that  are  all  quelled  now;  and  the  strange  sea  monsters, 
with  their  merry  eyes  —  let  us  see  —  they  are  the  dull 
passages  in  the  heavy  books,  which  have  begun  to  be 
amusing  since  we  have  sat  by  each  other." 

"Tito  mio!"  said  Romola,  in  a  half-laughing  voice 
of  love;  "but  you  will  give  me  the  key?"  she  added, 
holding  out  her  hand  for  it. 

[   295   ] 


L 


ROMOLA 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Tito,  with  plaj'ful  decision,  open- 
ing his  scarsella  and  dropping  in  the  little  key.  "I 
shall  drown  it  in  the  Arno." 

"  But  if  I  ever  wanted  to  look  at  the  crucifix  again  ?  " 

"  Ah !  for  that  very  reason  it  is  hidden  —  hidden 
by  these  images  of  youth  and  joy." 

He  pressed  a  light  kiss  on  her  brow,  and  she  said  no 
more,  ready  to  submit,  like  all  strong  souls,  when  she 
felt  no  valid  reason  for  resistance. 

And  then  they  joined  the  waiting  company,  which 
made  a  dignified  little  procession  as  it  passed  along 
the  Ponte  Rubaconte  towards  Santa  Croce.  Slowly 
it  passed,  for  Bardo,  unaccustomed  for  years  to  leave 
his  own  house,  walked  with  a  more  timid  step  than 
usual;  and  that  slow  pace  suited  well  with  the  gouty 
dignity  of  Messer  Bartolommeo  Scala,  who  graced  the 
occasion  by  his  presence,  along  with  his  daughter 
Alessandra.  It  was  customary  to  have  very  long  troops 
of  kindred  and  friends  at  the  sposalizio,  or  betrothal, 
and  it  had  even  been  found  necessary  in  time  past  to 
limit  the  number  by  law  to  no  more  than /our  hundred 
—  two  hundred  on  each  side ;  for  since  the  guests  were 
all  feasted  after  this  initial  ceremony,  as  well  as  after 
the  nozze,  or  marriage,  the  very  first  stage  of  matri- 
mony had  become  a  ruinous  expense,  as  that  scholarly 
Benedict,  Leonardo  Bruno,  complained  in  his  own 
case.  But  Bardo,  who  in  his  poverty  had  kept  himself 
proudly  free  from  any  appearance  of  claiming  the 
advantages  attached  to  a  powerful  family  name,  would 
have  no  invitations  given  on  the  strength  of  mere  friend- 
ship ;  and  the  modest  procession  of  twenty  that  followed 
[   29G   ] 


THE   DAY  OF  THE   BETROTHAL 

the  sposi  were,  with  three  or  four  exceptions,  friends  of 
Bardo's  and  Tito's  selected  on  personal  grounds. 

Bernardo  del  Nero  walked  as  a  vanguard  before 
Bardo,  who  was  led  on  the  right  by  Tito,  while  Romola 
held  her  father's  other  hand.  Bardo  had  himself  been 
married  at  Santa  Croce,  and  had  insisted  on  Romola's 
being  betrothed  and  married  there,  rather  than  in  the 
little  Church  of  Santa  Lucia  close  by  their  house,  be- 
cause he  had  a  complete  mental  vision  of  the  grand 
church  where  he  hoped  that  a  burial  might  be  granted 
him  among  the  Florentines  who  had  deserved  well. 
Happily  the  way  was  short  and  direct,  and  lay  aloof 
from  the  loudest  riot  of  the  Carnival,  if  only  they  could 
return  before  any  dances  or  shows  began  in  the  great 
Piazza  of  Santa  Croce.  The  west  was  red  as  they 
passed  the  bridge,  and  shed  a  mellow  light  on  the  pretty 
procession,  which  had  a  touch  of  solemnity  in  the 
presence  of  the  blind  father.  But  when  the  ceremony 
was  over,  and  Tito  and  Romola  came  out  on  to  the 
broad  steps  of  the  church,  with  the  golden  links  of 
destiny  on  their  fingers,  the  evening  had  deepened  into 
struggling  starlight,  and  the  servants  had  their  torches 
lit. 

While  they  came  out.  a  strange  dreary  chant,  as  of 
a  Miserere,  met  their  ears,  and  they  saw  that  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  piazza  there  seemed  to  be  a  stream 
of  people  impelled  by  something  approaching  from  the 
Borgo  de'  Greci. 

"  It  is  one  of  their  masqued  processions,  I  suppose," 
said  Tito,  who  was  now  alone  with  Romola,  while 
Bernardo  took  charge  of  Bardo. 
[   297   ] 


>"■■ 


V 


ROMOLA 

And  as  he  spoke  there  came  slowly  into  view,  at 
a  height  far  above  the  heads  of  the  onlookers,  a  huge 
and  ghastly  image  of  Winged  Time  with  his  scythe 
and  hour-glass,  surrounded  by  his  winged  children, 
the  Hours.  He  was  mounted  on  a  high  car  completely 
covered  with  black,  and  the  bullocks  that  drew  the  car 
were  also  covered  with  black,  their  horns  alone  stand- 
ing out  white  above  the  gloom ;  so  that  in  the  sombre 
shadow  of  the  houses  it  seemed  to  those  at  a  distance  as  if 
Time  and  his  children  were  apparitions  floating  through 
the  air.  And  behind  them  came  what  looked  like  a 
troop  of  the  sheeted  dead  gliding  above  blackness. 
And  as  they  glided  slowly,  they  chanted  in  a  wailing 
strain. 

A  cold  horror  seized  on  Romola,  for  at  the  first  mo- 
ment it  seemed  as  if  her  brother's  vision,  which  could 
never  be  effaced  from  her  mind,  was  being  half-ful- 
filled. She  clung  to  Tito,  who,  divining  what  was  in 
her  thoughts,  said,  — 

"What  dismal  fooling  sometimes  pleases  your 
Florentines!  Doubtless  this  is  an  invention  of  Piero 
di  Cosimo,  who  loves  such  grim  merriment." 

"Tito,    I    wish    it     had    not    happened.   It    will 

deepen  the  images  of  that  vision  which  I  would  fain 

.be  rid  of." 

<^    ,  I    "Nay,  Romola,  you  will  look  only  at  the  images 

of  our  happiness  now.   I  have  locked  all  sadness  away 

from  you." 

"  But  it    is  still   there  —  it    is  only  hidden,"  said 
Romola,  in  a  low   tone,   hardly  conscious    that  she 
W ,  "^ '       spoke. 
^^  [   298   ] 


^V- 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL 

"See,  they  are  all  gone  now!"  said  Tito.  "You 
will  forget  this  ghastly  mummery  when  we  are  in  the 
light,  and  can  see  each  other's  eyes.  My  Ariadne  must 
never  look  backward  now  —  only  forward  to  Easter,, 
when  she  will  triumph  with  her  Care-dispeller." 


BOOK  n 


CHAPTER   XXI 
FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

IT  was  the  seventeenth  of  November,  1494:  more  V 
than  eighteen  months  since  Tito  and  Romola  had 
been  finally  united  in  the  joyous  Easter-time,  and  had 
had  a  rainbow-tinted  shower  of  comfits  thrown  over 
them,  after  the  ancient  Greek  fashion,  in  token  that 
the  heavens  would  shower  sweets  on  them  through  all 
their  double  life. 

Since  that  Easter  a  great  change  had  come  over 
the  prospects  of  Florence;  and  as  in  the  tree  that  bears 
a  myriad  of  blossoms,  each  single  bud  with  its  fruit 
is  dependent  on  the  primary  circulation  of  the  sap, 
so  the  fortunes  of  Tito  and  Romola  were  dependent 
on  certain  grand  political  and  social  conditions  which 
made  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  Italy. 

In  this  very  November,  little  more  than  a  week  ago, 
the  spirit  of  the  old  centuries  seemed  to  have  re-entered 
the  breasts  of  Florentines.  The  great  bell  in  the  palace 
tower  had  rung  out  the  hammer-sound  of  alarm,  and 
the  people  had  mustered  with  their  rusty  arms,  their 
tools  and  impromptu  cudgels,  to  drive  out  the  Medici.  ^ 
The  gate  of  San  Gallo  had  been  fairly  shut  on  the 
arrogant,  exasperating  Piero,  galloping  away  towards  , 
Bologna  with  his  hired  horsemen  frightened  behind  him, 
and  shut  on  his  keener  young  brother,  the  cardinal, 
escaping  in  the  disguise  of  a  Franciscan  monk:  a  price 
[   303   ] 


ROMOLA 

had  been  set  on  both  their  heads.  After  that,  there  had 
been  some  sacking  of  houses,  according  to  old  precedent; 
the  ignominious  images,  painted  on  the  public  build- 
ings, of  the  men  who  had  conspired  against  the  Medici 
in  days  gone  by,  were  effaced;  the  exiled  enemies  of 
the  Medici  were  invited  home.  The  half -fledged  tyrants 
were  fairly  out  of  their  splendid  nest  in  the  Via  Larga, 
and  the  Republic  had  recovered  the  use  of  its  will  again. 
But  now,  a  week  later,  the  great  palace  in  the  Via 
Larga  had  been  prepared  for  tlie  reception  of  another 
tenant;  and  if  drapery  roofing  the  streets  with  unwonted 
colour,  if  banners  and  hangings  pouring  out  of  the 
windows,  if  carpets  and  tapestry  stretched  over  all  steps 
and  pavement  on  which  exceptional  feet  might  tread, 
were  an  unquestionable  proof  of  joy,  Florence  was  very 
joyful  in  the  expectation  of  its  new  guest.  The  stream 
of  colour  flowed  from  the  palace  in  the  Via  Larga 
round  by  the  Cathedral,  then  by  the  great  Piazza  della 
Signoria,  and  across  the  Ponte  Vecchio  to  the  Porta  San 
Frediano  —  the  gate  that  looks  towards  Pisa.  There, 
near  the  gate,  a  platform  and  canopy  had  been  erected 
for  the  Signoria;  and  Messer  Luca  Corsini,  doctor  of 
law,  felt  his  heart  palpitating  a  little  with  the  sense  that 
he  had  a  Latin  oration  to  read ;  and  every  chief  elder  in 
Florence  had  to  make  himself  ready,  with  smooth  chin 
and  well-lined  silk  lucco,  to  walk  in  procession;  and  the 
well-bom  youths  were  looking  at  their  rich  new  tunics 
after  the  French  mode  which  was  to  impress  the  stranger 
as  having  a  peculiar  grace  when  worn  by  Florentines; 
and  a  large  body  of  the  clergy,  from  the  archbishop  in 
his  effulgence  to  the  train  of  monks,  black,  white,  and 
[   304   ] 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

grey,  were  consulting  betimes  in  the  morning  how  they 
should  marshal  themselves,  witli  their  burthen  of  relics 
and  sacred  banners  and  consecrated  jewels,  that  their 
movements  might  be  adjusted  to  the  expected  arrival 
of  the  illustrious  visitor,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
An  unexampled  visitor!  For  he  had  come  through  the 
passes  of  the  Alps  with  such  an  army  as  Italy  had  not 
seen  before:  with  thousands  of  terrible  Swiss,  well  used 
to  fight  for  love  and  hatred  as  well  as  for  hire;  with 
a  host  of  gallant  cavaliers  proud  of  a  name;  with  an  un- 
precedented infantry,  in  which  every  man  in  a  hundred 
carried  an  arquebus;  nay,  with  cannon  of  bronze,  shoot- 
ing not  stones  but  iron  balls,  drawn  not  by  bullocks  but 
by  horses,  and  capable  of  firing  a  second  time  before  a 
city  could  mend  the  breach  made  by  the  first  ball.  Some 
compared  the  new-comer  to  Charlemagne,  reputed  re- 
builder  of  Florence,  welcome  conqueror  of  degenerate 
kings,  regulator  and  benefactor  of  the  Church;  some 
preferred  the  comparison  to  Cyrus,  liberator  of  the 
chosen  people,  restorer  of  the  Temple.  For  he  had  come 
across  the  Alps  with  the  most  glorious  projects :  he  was 
to  march  through  Italy  amidst  the  jubilees  of  a  grateful 
and  admiring  people;  he  was  to  satisfy  all  conflicting 
complaints  at  Rome;  he  was  to  take  possession,  by  virtue 
of  hereditary-  right  and  a  little  fighting,  of  the  kingdom 
of  Naples;  and  from  that  convenient  starting-point  he 
was  to  set  out  on  the  conquest  of  the  Turks,  who  were 
partly  to  be  cut  to  pieces  and  partly  converted  to  the 
faitli  of  Christ.  It  was  a  scheme  that  secme<l  to  befit  tlie 
Most  Christian  King,  head  of  a  nation  which,  thanks  to 
tlie  devices  of  a  subtle  I^ouis  the  Eleventh  who  had  died 
[   305    ] 


ROMOLA 

in  much  fright  as  to  his  personal  prospects  ten  years  be- 
fore, had  become  the  strongest  of  Christian  monarchies; 
and  this  antitype  of  Cyrus  and  Charlemagne  was  no 
other  than  the  son  of  that  subtle  Louis  —  the  young 
Charles  the  Eighth  of  France. 

Surely,  on  a  general  statement,  hardly  an}ihing  could 
seem  more  grandiose,  or  fitter  to  revive  in  the  breasts  of 
men  the  memory  of  great  dispensations  by  which  new 
strata  had  been  laid  in  the  history  of  mankind.  And 
there  was  a  very  widely-spread  conviction  that  the  ad- 
vent of  the  French  King  and  his  army  into  Italy  was  one 
of  those  events  at  which  marble  statues  might  well  be 
believed  to  perspire,  phantasmal  fiery  warriors  to  fight 
in  the  air,  and  quadrupeds  to  bring  forth  monstrous 
births;  that  it  did  not  belong  to  the  usual  order  of  Pro- 
vidence, but  was  in  a  peculiar  sense  the  work  of  God. 
It  was  a  conviction  that  rested  less  on  the  necessarily 
momentous  character  of  a  powerful  foreign  invasion  than 
on  certain  moral  emotions  to  which  the  aspect  of  the 
times  gave  the  form  of  presentiments:  emotions  which 
had  found  a  very  remarkable  utterance  in  the  voice  of 
a  single  man. 

That  man  was  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  Prior  of 
the  Dominican  Convent  of  San  Marco  in  Florence.  On 
a  September  morning,  when  men's  ears  were  ringing 
with  the  news  that  the  French  army  had  entered  Italy, 
he  had  preached  in  the  Cathedral  of  Florence  from  the 
text,  "Behold  I,  even  I,  do  bring  a  flood  of  waters  upon 
the  earth."  He  believed  it  was  by  supreme  guidance 
that  he  had  reached  just  so  far  in  his  exposition  of  Gene- 
eis  the  previous  Lent;  and  he  believed  the  "flood  of 
[  306   ] 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

water"  —  emblem  at  once  of  avenging  wrath  and  puri- 
fying mercy  —  to  be  the  divinely-indicated  symbol  of 
the  French  army.  His  audience,  some  of  whom  were 
held  to  be  among  the  choicest  spirits  of  the  age,  —  the 
most  cultivated  men  in  the  most  cultivated  of  Italian 
cities,  —  believed  it  too,  and  listened  with  shuddering 
awe.  For  this  man  had  a  power  rarely  paralleled,  of 
impressing  his  beliefs  on  others,  and  of  swajnng  very 
various  minds.  And  as  long  as  four  years  ago  he  had 
proclaimed  from  the  chief  pulpit  of  Florence  that  a 
scourge  was  about  to  descend  on  Italy,  and  that  by  this 
scourge  the  Church  was  to  be  purified.  Savonarola 
appeared  to  believe,  and  his  hearers  more  or  less  waver- 
ingly  believed,  that  he  had  a  mission  like  that  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets,  and  that  the  Florentines  amongst 
whom  his  message  was  delivered  were  in  some  sense 
a  second  chosen  people.  The  idea  of  prophetic  gifts  was 
not  a  remote  one  in  that  age:  seers  of  visions,  circum- 
stantial heralds  of  things  to  be,  were  far  from  uncom- 
mon either  outside  or  inside  the  cloister;  but  this  very 
fact  made  Savonarola  stand  out  the  more  conspicuously 
as  a  grand  exception.  While  in  others  the  gift  of  pro- 
phecy was  very  much  like  a  farthing  candle  illuminating 
small  comers  of  human  destiny  with  prophetic  gossip, 
in  Savonarola  it  was  like  a  mighty  beacon  shining  far 
out  for  the  warning  and  guidance  of  men.  And  to  some 
of  the  soberest  minds  the  supernatural  character  of  his 
insight  into  the  future  gathered  a  strong  attestation 
from  the  peculiar  conditions  of  the  age. 

At  the  close  of  1492,  the  year  in  which  Lorenzo  de* 
Medici  died  and  Tito  Melema  came  as  a  wanderer  to 
[  307  ] 


ROMOLA 

Florence,  Italy  was  enjoying  a  peace  and  prosperity 
unthreatened  by  any  near  and  definite  danger.  There 
was  no  fear  of  famine,  for  the  seasons  had  been  plenteous 
in  corn  and  wine  and  oil ;  new  palaces  had  been  rising  in 
all  fair  cities,  new  villas  on  pleasant  slopes  and  sum- 
mits; and  the  men  who  had  more  than  their  share  of 
these  good  things  were  in  no  fear  of  the  larger  number 
who  had  less.  For  the  citizen's  armour  was  getting 
rusty,  and  populations  seemed  to  have  become  tame, 
licking  the  hands  of  masters  who  paid  for  a  ready-made 
army  when  they  wanted  it,  as  they  paid  for  goods  of 
Smyrna.  Even  the  fear  of  the  Turk  had  ceased  to  be 
active,  and  the  Pope  found  it  more  immediately  pro- 
fitable to  accept  bribes  from  him  for  a  little  prospective 
poisoning  than  to  form  plans  either  for  conquering  or 
for  converting  him. 
r  Altogether  this  world,  with  its  partitioned  empire 
and  its  roomy  universal  Church,  seemed  to  be  a  hand- 
some establishment  for  the  few  who  were  lucky  or 
wise  enough  to  reap  the  advantages  of  human  folly:  a 
world  in  which  lust  and  obscenity,  lying  and  treachery, 
oppression  and  murder,  were  pleasant,  useful,  and, 
when  properly  managed,  not  dangerous.  And  as  a  sort 
of  fringe  or  adornment  to  the  substantial  delights  of 
tyranny,  avarice,  and  lasciviousness,  there  was  the 
patronage  of  polite  learning  and  the  fine  arts,  so  that 
flattery  could  always  be  had  in  the  choicest  Latin  to  be 
commanded  at  that  time,  and  sublime  artists  were  at 
hand  to  paint  the  holy  and  the  unclean  with  impartial 
skill.  The  Church,  it  was  said,  had  never  been  so 
disgraced  in  its  head,  had  never  shown  so  few  signs  of 
[  308  ] 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

renovating,  vital  belief  in  its  lower  members;  never- 
theless it  was  much  more  prosperous  than  in  some 
past  days.  The  heavens  were  fair  and  smiling  above; 
and  below  there  were  no  signs  of  earthquake. 

Yet,  at  that  time,  as  we  have  seen,  there  was  a  man 
in  Florence  who  for  two  years  and  more  had  been  preach- 
ing that  a  scourge  was  at  hand ;  that  the  world  was  cer- 
tainly not  framed  for  the  lasting  convenience  of  hypo- 
crites, libertines,  and  oppressors.  From  the  midst  of 
those  smiling  heavens  he  had  seen  a  sword  hanging  — 
the  sword  of  God's  justice  —  which  was  speedily  to 
descend  with  purifying  punishment  on  the  Church  and 
the  world.  In  brilliant  Ferrara,  seventeen  years  be- 
fore, the  contradiction  between  men's  lives  and  their 
professed  beliefs  had  pressed  upon  him  with  a  force 
that  had  been  enough  to  destroy  his  appetite  for  the 
world,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  had  driven  him 
into  the  cloister.  He  believed  that  God  had  committed 
to  the  Church  the  sacred  lamp  of  truth  for  the  guidance 
and  salvation  of  men,  and  he  saw  that  the  Church,  in 
its  corruption,  had  become  a  sepulchre  to  hide  the  lamp. 
As  the  years  went  on  scandals  increased  and  multiplied, 
and  hypocrisy  seemed  to  have  given  place  to  impu- 
dence. Had  the  world,  tlien,  ceased  to  have  a  righteous 
Ruler?  Was  the  Church  finally  forsaken  ?  No,  assuredly 
in  the  Sacred  Book  there  was  a  record  of  the  past  in 
which  might  be  seen  as  in  a  glass  what  would  be  in  the 
days  to  come,  and  the  Book  showed  that  when  the 
wickedness  of  the  chosen  people,  type  of  the  Christian 
Church,  had  become  crying,  the  judgements  of  God  had 
descended  on  them.  Nay,  reason  itself  declared  that 
[  309  ] 


ROMOLA 

vengeance  was  imminent,  for  what  else  would  suflBce 
to  turn  men  from  their  obstinacy  in  evil  ?  And  unless 
the  Church  were  reclaimed,  how  could  the  promises 
be  fulfilled,  that  the  heathens  should  be  converted  and 
the  whole  world  become  subject  to  the  one  true  law  ? 
He  had  seen  his  belief  reflected  in  visions  —  a  mode 
of  seeing  which  had  been  frequent  with  him  from  his 
youth  up. 

But  the  real  force  of  demonstration  for  Girolamo 
Savonarola  lay  in  his  own  burning  indignation  at  the 
sight  of  wrong;  in  his  fervent  belief  in  an  Unseen 
Justice  that  would  put  an  end  to  the  wrong,  and  in  an 
Unseen  Purity  to  which  lying  and  uncleanness  were 
an  abomination.  To  his  ardent,  power-loving  soul, 
believing  in  great  ends,  and  longing  to  achieve  those 
ends  by  the  exertion  of  its  own  strong  will,  the  faith 
in  a  supreme  and  righteous  Ruler  became  one  with  the 
faith  in  a  speedy  divine  interposition  that  would  punish 
and  reclaim. 

Meanwhile,  under  that  splendid  masquerade  of 
dignities  sacred  and  secular  which  seemed  to  make  the 
life  of  lucky  Churchmen  and  princely  families  so  lux- 
urious and  amusing,  there  were  certain  conditions  at 
work  which  slowly  tended  to  disturb  the  general  fes- 
tivity. Ludovico  Sforza  —  copious  in  gallantry,  splen- 
did patron  of  an  incomparable  Leonardo  da  Vinci  — 
holding  the  ducal  crown  of  Milan  in  his  grasp,  and  want- 
ing to  put  it  on  his  own  head  rather  than  let  it  rest  on 
that  of  a  feeble  nephew  who  would  take  very  little  to 
poison  him,  was  much  afraid  of  the  Spanish-born  old 
King  Ferdinand  and  the  Crown  Prince  Alfonso  of 
[  310  ] 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

Naples,  who,  not  liking  cruelty  and  treachery  which 
were  useless  to  themselves,  objected  to  the  poisoning  of 
a  near  relative  for  the  advantage  of  a  Lombard  usurper; 
the  royalties  of  Naples  again  were  afraid  of  their  suzer- 
ain, Pope  Alexander  Borgia;  all  tliree  were  anxiously 
watching  Florence,  lest  with  its  midway  territory  it 
should  determine  the  game  by  underhand  backing; 
and  all  four,  with  every  small  State  in  Italy,  were  afraid 
of  Venice  —  Venice  the  cautious,  the  stable,  and  the 
strong,  that  wanted  to  stretch  its  arms  not  only  along 
both  sides  of  the  Adriatic  but  across  to  the  ports  of  the 
western  coast. 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  it  was  thought,  did  much  to 
prevent  the  fatal  outbreak  of  such  jealousies,  keeping 
up  the  old  Florentine  alliance  with  Naples  and  the 
Pope,  and  yet  persuading  Milan  that  the  alliance  was 
for  the  general  advantage.  But  young  Piero  de'  Medici's 
rash  vanity  had  quickly  nullified  the  effect  of  his  father's 
wary  policy,  and  Ludovico  Sforza,  roused  to  suspicion 
of  a  league  against  him,  thought  of  a  move  which  would 
checkmate  his  adversaries:  he  determined  to  invite  the 
French  King  to  march  into  Italy,  and,  as  heir  of  the 
house  of  Anjou,  take  possession  of  Naples.  Ambassadors 
—  "orators,"  as  they  were  called  in  those  haranguing 
times  —  went  and  came;  a  recusant  cardinal,  deter- 
mined not  to  acknowledge  a  pope  elected  by  bribery 
(and  his  own  particular  enemy),  went  and  came  also, 
and  seconded  the  invitation  with  hot  rhetoric;  and  the 
young  king  seemed  to  lend  a  willing  ear.  So  that  in 
1493  the  rumour  spread  and  became  louder  and  louder 
that  Charles  the  Eighth  of  France  was  about  to  cross 
[  311   ] 


L 


ROMOLA 

the  Alps  with  a  mighty  army;  and  the  Italian  popula- 
tions, accustomed,  since  Italy  had  ceased  to  be  the 
heart  of  the  Roman  Empire,  to  look  for  an  arbitrator 
from  afar,  began  vaguely  to  regard  his  coming  as  a 
means  of  avenging  their  wrongs  and  redressing  their 
grievances. 

And  in  that  rumour  Savonarola  had  heard  the  assur- 
ance that  his  prophecy  was  being  verified.  TVTiat  was 
it  that  filled  the  ears  of  the  prophets  of  old  but  the  dis- 
tant tread  of  foreign  armies,  coming  to  do  the  work  of 
justice  ?  He  no  longer  looked  vaguely  to  the  horizon  for 
the  coming  storm:  he  pointed  to  the  rising  cloud.  The 
French  army  was  that  new  deluge  which  was  to  purify 
the  earth  from  iniquity;  the  French  King,  Charles  VIII, 
was  the  instrument  elected  by  God,  as  Cyrus  had  been 
of  old,  and  all  men  who  desired  good  rather  tlian  evil 
were  to  rejoice  in  his  coming.  For  the  scourge  would 
fall  destructively  on  the  impenitent  alone.  Let  any  city 
of  Italy,  let  Florence  above  all  —  Florence  beloved  of 
God,  since  to  its  ear  the  warning  voice  had  been  spe- 
cially sent  —  repent  and  turn  from  its  ways,  like  Nine- 
veh of  old,  and  tlie  storm -clbud  would  roll  over  it  and 
leave  only  refreshing  raindrops. 

Fra  Girolarao's  word  was  powerful;  yet  now  tliat 
the  new  Cyrus  had  already  been  three  months  in  Italy, 
and  was  not  far  from  the  gates  of  Florence,  his  pre- 
sence was  expected  there  with  mixed  feelings,  rn  which 
fear  and  distrust  certainly  predominated.  At  present  it 
was  not  understood  that  he  had  redressed  any  griev- 
ances; and  the  Florentines  clearly  had  nothing  to  thank 
him  for.  He  held  their  strong  frontier  fortresses,  which 
[   312  ] 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST 

Piero  de*  Medici  had  given  up  to  him  without  securing 
any  honourable  terms  in  return;  he  had  done  nothing 
to  quell  the  alarming  revolt  of  Pisa,  which  had  been 
encouraged  by  his  presence  to  throw  off  the  Florentine 
yoke;  and  "orators,"  even  with  a  prophet  at  their  head, 
could  win  no  assurance  from  him,  except  that  he  would 
settle  everj-thing  when  he  was  once  within  the  walls 
of  Florence.  Still,  there  was  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  the  exasperating  Piero  de'  Medici  had  been  fairly 
pelted  out  for  the  ignominious  surrender  of  the  fortresses, 
and  in  that  act  of  energy  the  spirit  of  tlie  Republic  had 
recovered  some  of  its  old  fire. 

The  preparations  for  the  equivocal  guest  were  not 
entirely  those  of  a  city  resigned  to  submission.  Behind 
the  bright  drapery  and  banners  symbolical  of  joy,  tliere 
were  preparations  of  another  sort  made  with  common 
accord  by  government  and  people.  Well  hidden  within 
walls  there  were  hired  soldiers  of  the  Republic,  hastily 
called  in  from  the  surrounding  districts;  there  were 
old  arms  duly  furbished,  and  sharp  tools  and  heavy 
cudgels  laid  carefully  at  hand,  to  be  snatched  up  on 
short  notice ;  there  were  excellent  boards  and  stakes  to 
form  barricades  upon  occasion,  and  a  good  supply  of 
stones  to  make  a  surprising  hail  from  the  upper  win- 
dows. Above  all,  there  were  peo{)le  very  strongly  in 
the  humour  for  fighting  any  personage  who  might  be 
supposed  to  have  designs  of  hectoring  over  them,  they 
having  lately  tasted  that  new  pleasure  with  much  relish. 
This  humour  was  not  diminished  by  the  sight  of  occa- 
sional parties  of  Frenchmen,  coming  beforehand  to 
choose  their  quarters,  with  a  hawk,  perhaps,  on  their 
[  313   ] 


ROMOLA 

left  wrist,  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  a  piece  of  chalk 
in  their  right  hand  to  mark  Italian  doors  withal;  espe- 
cially as  creditable  historians  imply  that  many  sons  of 
France  were  at  that  time  characterized  by  something 
approaching  to  a  swagger,  which  must  have  whetted 
the  Florentine  appetite  for  a  little  stone-throwing. 

And  this  was  the  temper  of  Florence  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  seventeenth  of  November,  1494. 


CHAPTER   XXn 
THE   PRISONERS 

THE  sky  was  grey,  but  that  made  little  difference  in 
the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  which  was  covered  with  its 
holiday  sky  of  blue  drapery,  and  its  constellations  of 
yellow  lilies  and  coats  of  arms.  The  sheaves  of  ban- 
ners were  unfurled  at  the  angles  of  the  Baptistery, 
but  there  was  no  carpet  yet  on  the  steps  of  the  Duomo, 
for  the  marble  was  being  trodden  by  numerous  feet 
that  were  not  at  all  exceptional.  It  was  the  hour  of  the 
Advent  sermons,  and  the  very  same  reasons  which  had 
flushed  the  streets  with  holiday  colour  were  reasons 
why  the  preaching  in  the  Duomo  could  least  of  all  be 
dispensed  with. 

But  not  all  the  feet  in  the  piazza  were  hastening 
towards  the  steps.  People  of  high  and  low  degree  were 
moving  to  and  fro  with  the  brisk  pace  of  men  who  had 
errands  before  them ;  groups  of  talkers  were  thickly  scat- 
tered, some  willing  to  be  late  for  the  sermon,  and  others 
content  not  to  hear  it  at  all. 

The  expression  on  the  faces  of  these  apparent  loungers 
was  not  that  of  men  who  are  enjoying  the  pleasant  lazi- 
ness of  an  opening  holiday.  Some  were  in  close  and 
eager  discussion;  others  were  listening  with  keen  inter- 
est to  a  single  spokesman,  and  yet  from  time  to  time 
turned  round  with  a  scanning  glance  at  any  new  passer- 
by. At  the  comer,  looking  towards  the  Via  de'  Cer- 
[  315  ] 


ROMOLA 

retani,  —  just  where  the  artificial  rainbow  light  of  the 
piazza  ceased,  and  the  grey  morning  fell  on  the  sombre 
stone  houses,  —  there  was  a  remarkable  cluster  of  the 
working- people,  most  of  them  bearing  on  their  dress  or 
persons  the  signs  of  their  daily  labour,  and  almost  all 
of  them  carrying  some  weapon,  or  some  tool  which 
might  serve  as  a  weapon  upon  occasion.  Standing  in 
the  grey  light  of  the  street,  with  bare  brawny  arms  and 
soiled  garments,  they  made  all  the  more  striking  the 
transition  from  the  brightness  of  the  piazza.  They 
were  listening  to  the  thin  notary,  Ser  Cioni,  who  had 
just  paused  on  his  way  to  the  Duomo.  His  biting  words 
could  get  only  a  contemptuous  reception  two  years  and 
a  half  before  in  the  Mercato,  but  now  he  spoke  with 
the  more  complacent  humour  of  a  man  whose  party 
is  uppermost,  and  who  is  conscioujs  of  some  influence 
with  the  people. 

"Never  talk  to  me,"  he  was  saying,  in  his  incisive 
voice,  "never  talk  to  me  of  bloodthirsty  Swiss  or  fierce 
French  infantry:  they  might  as  well  be  in  the  narrow 
passes  of  the  mountains  as  in  our  streets;  and  peasants 
have  destroyed  the  finest  armies  of  our  condottieri  in 
time  past,  when  they  had  once  got  them  between  steep 
precipices.  I  tell  you,  Florentines  need  be  afraid  of  no 
army  in  their  own  streets." 

"That's  true,  Ser  Cioni,"  said  a  man  whose  arms 
and  hands  were  discoloured  by  crimson  dye,  which 
looked  like  bloodstains,  and  who  had  a  small  hatchet 
stuck  in  his  belt;  "and  those  French  cavaliers,  who 
came  in  squaring  themselves  in  their  smart  doublets 
the  other  day,  saw  a  sample  of  the  dinner  we  could 
[   31G   ] 


THE  PRISONERS 

serve  up  for  them.  I  was  carrying  my  cloth  in  Ognis- 
santi,  when  I  saw  my  fine  Messeri  going  by,  looking 
round  as  if  they  thought  the  houses  of  the  Vespucci 
and  the  Agli  a  poor  pick  of  lodgings  for  them,  and 
eyeing  us  Florentines,  like  top-knotted  cocks  as  they 
are,  as  if  they  pitied  us  because  we  did  n't  know  how  to 
strut.  'Yes,  my  fine  Galli,'  says  I,  'stick  out  your 
stomachs;  I've  got  a  meat-axe  in  my  belt  tliat  will  go 
inside  you  all  the  easier';  when  presently  the  old  cow 
lowed,*  and  I  knew  something  had  happened — no 
matter  what.  So  I  threw  my  clotli  in  at  the  first  door- 
way, and  took  hold  of  my  meat-axe  and  ran  after  my 
fine  cavaliers  towards  the  Vigna  Nuova.  And,  'What 
is  it,  Guccio?'  said  I,  when  he  came  up  with  me.  'I 
think  it's  the  Medici  coming  back,'  said  Guccio. 
Bembel  I  expected  so!  And  up  we  reared  a  barricade, 
and  the  Frenchmen  looked  behind  and  saw  themselves 
in  a  trap;  and  up  comes  a  good  swarm  of  our  Ciompi,^ 
and  one  of  them  with  a  big  scythe  he  had  in  his  hand 
mowed  off  one  of  the  fine  cavalier's  feathers:  —  it's 
true!  And  the  lasses  peppered  a  few  stones  down  to 
frighten  them.  However,  Piero  de'  Medici  was  not 
come  after  all;  and  it  was  a  pity;  for  we'd  have  left 
him  neither  legs  nor  wings  to  go  away  with  again." 

"Well  spoken,  Oddo,"  said  a  young  butcher,  with 
his  knife  at  his  belt;  "and  it's  my  belief  Piero  will  be 
a  good  while  before  he  wants  to  come  back,  for  he 

'  "La  vacca  muglia"  was  the  phrase  for  the  sounding  of  the  great 
bell  in  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio. 

'  The  poorer  artisans  connected  with  the  wool  trade  —  wool' 
beaters,  carders,  washers,  etc. 

[  317  ] 


ROMOLA 

looked  as  frightened  as  a  hunted  chicken,  when  we 
hustled  and  pelted  him  in  the  piazza.  He's  a  coward, 
else  he  might  have  made  a  better  stand  when  he'd  got 
his  horsemen.  But  we'll  swallow  no  Medici  any  more, 
whatever  else  the  French  King  wants  to  make  us  swal- 
low." 

"But  I  like  not  those  French  cannon  they  talk  of," 
said  Goro,  none  the  less  fat  for  two  years'  additional 
grievances.  "San  Giovanni  defend  us!  If  Messer 
Domeneddio  means  so  well  by  us  as  your  Frate  says 
he  does,  Ser  Cioni,  why  should  n't  he  have  sent  the 
French  another  way  to  Naples  ? " 

"Ay,  Goro,"  said  the  dyer;  "that's  a  question 
worth  putting.  Thou  art  not  such  a  pumpkin-head 
as  I  took  thee  for.  Why,  they  might  have  gone  to  Naples 
by  Bologna,  eh,  Ser  Cioni  ?  or  if  they'd  gone  to  Arezzo 
—  we  would  n't  have  minded  their  going  to  Arezzo." 

"Fools!  It  will  be  for  the  good  and  glory  of  Florence,'* 
Ser  Cioni  began.  But  he  was  interrupted  by  the  ex- 
clamation, "Look  there!"  which  burst  from  several 
voices  at  once,  while  the  faces  were  all  turned  to  a  party 
who  were  advancing  along  the  Via  de'  Cerretani. 

"It's  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  and  one  of  the  French 
noblemen  who  are  in  his  house,"  said  Ser  Cioni,  in  some 
contempt  at  this  interruption.  "He  pretends  to  look 
well  satisfied  —  tliat  deep  Tornabuoni — but  he's  a 
Medicean  in  his  heart:  mind  that." 

The  advancing  party  was   rather  a   brilliant  one, 

for  there  was  not  only  the  distinguished  presence  of 

Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  and  the  splendid  costume  of  the 

Frenchman  with  his  elaborately  displayed  white  linen 

[  318  ] 


THE  PRISONERS 

and  gorgeous  embroidery;  there  were  two  other  Floren- 
tines of  high  birth  in  handsome  dresses  donned  for  the 
coming  procession,  and  on  the  left  hand  of  the  French- 
man was  a  jSgure  that  was  not  to  be  eclipsed  by  any 
amount  of  intention  or  brocade  —  a  figure  we  have 
often  seen  before.  He  wore  nothing  but  black,  for  he 
was  in  mourning;  but  the  black  was  presently  to  be 
covered  by  a  red  mantle,  for  he  too  was  to  w^alk  in 
procession  as  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Ten.  Tito  Melema 
had  become  conspicuously  serviceable  in  the  inter- 
course with  the  French  guests,  from  his  familiarity 
with  Southern  Italy,  and  his  readiness  in  the  French 
tongue,  which  he  had  spoken  in  his  early  youth;  and 
he  had  paid  more  than  one  visit  to  the  French  camp 
at  Signa.  The  lustre  of  good  fortune  was  upon  him; 
he  was  smiling,  listening,  and  explaining,  with  his 
usual  graceful  unpretentious  ease,  and  only  a  very  keen 
eye  bent  on  studying  him  could  have  marked  a  certain 
amount  of  change  in  him  which  was  not  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  lapse  of  eighteen  months.  It  was  that  change 
which  comes  from  the  final  departure  of  moral  youth- 
fulness  —  from  the  distinct  self-conscious  adoption  of 
a  part  in  life.  The  lines  of  tlie  face  were  as  soft  as  ever, 
the  eyes  as  pellucid ;  but  something  was  gone  —  some- 
thing as  indefinable  as  the  changes  in  the  morning 
twilight. 

The  Frenchman  was  gathering  instructions  con- 
cerning ceremonial  before  riding  back  to  Signa,  and 
now  he  was  going  to  have  a  final  survey  of  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo,  where  the  royal  procession  was  to  pause 
for  religious  purposes.  The  distinguished  party  at- 
[   319   ] 


ROMOLA 

tracted  the  notice  of  all  eyes  as  it  entered  the  piazza, 
but  the  gaze  was  not  entirely  cordial  and  admiring; 
there  were  remarks  not  altogether  allusive  and  mysteri- 
ous to  the  Frenchman's  hoof -shaped  shoes — delicate 
flattery  of  royal  superfluity  in  toes;  and  there  was  no 
care  that  certain  snarlings  at  "Mediceans"  should  be 
strictly  inaudible.  But  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  possessed 
that  power  of  dissembling  annoyance  which  is  demanded 
in  a  man  who  courts  popularity,  and  Tito,  besides  his 
natural  disposition  to  overcome  ill  will  by  good  humour, 
had  the  unimpassioned  feeling  of  the  alien  towards 
names  and  details  that  move  the  deepest  passions  of 
the  native. 

Arrived  where  they  could  get  a  good  oblique  view 
of  the  Duomo,  the  party  paused.  The  festoons  and 
devices  placed  over  the  central  doorw^ay  excited  some 
demur,  and  Tornabuoni  beckoned  to  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
who,  as  was  usual  with  him  at  this  hour,  was  lounging 
in  front  of  Nello's  shop.  There  was  soon  an  animated 
discussion,  and  it  became  highly  amusing  from  the 
Frenchman's  astonishment  at  Piero 's  odd  pungency 
of  statement,  which  Tito  translated  literally.  Even 
snarling  onlookers  became  curious,  and  their  faces  be- 
gan to  wear  the  half -smiling,  half -humiliated  expression 
of  people  who  are  not  within  hearing  of  the  joke  which 
is  producing  infectious  laughter.  It  was  a  delightful 
moment  for  Tito,  for  he  was  the  only  one  of  tlie  party 
who  could  have  made  so  amusing  an  interpreter,  and 
r  without  any  disposition  to  triumphant  self-gratulation 
he  revelled  in  the  sense  that  he  was  an  object  of  liking 
—  he  basked  in  approving  glances.  The  rainbow  light 
[  320  ] 


THE  PRISONERS 

fell  about  the  laughing  group,  and  the  grave  church- 
goers had  all  disappeared  within  the  walls.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  piazza  had  been  decorated  for  a  real  Florentine 
holiday. 

Meanwhile  in  the  grey  light  of  the  unadorned  streets 
there  were  on-comers  who  made  no  show  of  linen  and 
brocade,  and  whose  humour  was  far  from  merry. 
Here,  too,  the  French  dress  and  hoofed  shoes  were 
conspicuous,  but  they  were  being  pressed  upon  by  a 
larger  and  larger  number  of  non-admiring  Florentines. 
In  the  van  of  the  crowd  were  three  men  in  scanty  cloth- 
ing; each  had  his  hands  bound  together  by  a  cord,  and 
a  rope  was  fastened  round  his  neck  and  body,  in  such 
a  way  that  he  who  held  the  extremity  of  the  rope  might 
easily  check  any  rebellious  movement  by  the  threat  of 
throttling.  The  men  who  held  the  ropes  were  French 
soldiers,  and  by  broken  Italian  phrases  and  strokes 
from  the  knotted  end  of  the  rope,  they  from  time  to 
time  stimulated  their  prisoners  to  beg.  Two  of  them 
were  obedient,  and  to  every  Florentine  they  had  en- 
countered had  held  out  their  bound  hands  and  said 
in  piteous  tones,  — 

"For  the  love  of  God  and  the  Holy  Madonna, 
give  us  sometliing  towards  our  ransom!  We  are  Tus- 
cans: we  were  made  prisoners  in  Lunigiana." 

But  the  third  man  remained  obstinately  silent  under 
all  the  strokes  from  the  knotted  cord.  He  was  very 
diflFerent  in  aspect  from  his  two  fellow  prisoners.  They 
were  young  and  hardy,  and,  in  the  scant  clothing  which 
the  avarice  of  their  captors  had  left  them,  looked  like 
vulgar,  sturdy  mendicants.  But  he  had  passed  the 
[   iJ21    ] 


ROMOLA 

boundary  of  old  age,  and  could  hardly  be  less  than 
four  or  five  and  sixty.  His  beard,  which  had  grown 
long  in  neglect,  and  the  hair,  which  fell  thick  and  straight 
round  his  baldness,  were  nearly  white.  His  thickset 
figure  was  still  firm  and  upright,  though  emaciated,  and 
seemed  to  express  energy  in  spite  of  age  —  an  expres- 
sion that  was  partly  carried  out  in  the  dark  eyes  and 
strong  dark  eyebrows,  which  had  a  strangely  isolated 
intensity  of  colour  in  the  midst  of  his  yellow,  bloodless, 
deep-wrinkled  face  with  its  lank  grey  hairs.  And  yet 
there  was  something  fitful  in  the  eyes  which  contra- 
dicted the  occasional  flash  of  energy:  after  looking  round 
with  quick  fierceness  at  windows  and  faces,  they  fell 
again  with  a  lost  and  wandering  look.  But  his  lips  were 
motionless,  and  he  held  his  hands  resolutely  down. 
He  would  not  beg. 

This  sight  had  been  witnessed  by  the  Florentines  with 
growing  exasperation.  Many  standing  at  their  doors  or 
passing  quietly  along  had  at  once  given  money  —  some 
in  half-automatic  response  to  an  appeal  in  the  name  of 
God,  others  in  that  unquestioning  awe  of  the  French 
soldiery  which  had  been  created  by  the  reports  of  their 
cniel  warfare,  and  on  which  the  French  themselves 
counted  as  a  guarantee  of  immunity  in  their  acts  of 
insolence.  But  as  the  group  had  proceeded  farther  into 
the  heart  of  the  city,  that  compliance  had  gradually 
disappeared,  and  the  soldiers  found  themselves  escorted 
by  a  gathering  troop  of  men  and  boys,  who  kept  up  a 
chorus  of  exclamations  suflSciently  intelligible  to  foreign 
ears  witliout  any  interpreter.  The  soldiers  themselves 
began  to  dislike  their  position,  for,  with  a  strong  incliua- 
[   322  ] 


THE  PRISONERS 

tion  to  use  their  weapons,  they  were  checked  by  the 
necessity  for  keeping  a  secure  hold  on  their  prisoners, 
and  they  were  now  hurrying  along  in  the  hope  of  finding 
shelter  in  a  hostelry. 

"French  dogs!  "  "Bullock-feet!  "  "Snatch  their 
pikes  from  them!  "  "Cut  the  cords  and  make  them  run 
for  their  prisoners.  They'll  run  as  fast  as  geese  —  don't 
you  see  they're  web-footed?"  These  were  the  cries 
which  the  soldiers  vaguely  understood  to  be  jeers,  and 
probably  threats.  But  every  one  seemed  disposed  to 
give  invitations  of  this  spirited  kind  rather  than  to  act 
upon  them. 

"Santiddio!  here's  a  sight!"  said  the  dyer,  as  soon  as 
he  had  divined  the  meaning  of  the  advancing  tumult, 
"and  the  fools  do  nothing  but  hoot.  Come  along!"  he 
added,  snatching  his  axe  from  his  belt,  and  running  to 
join  the  crowd,  followed  by  the  butcher  and  all  the  rest 
of  his  companions,  except  Goro,  who  hastily  retreated 
up  a  narrow  passage. 

The  sight  of  the  dyer,  running  forward  with  blood -red 
arms  and  axe  uplifted,  and  with  his  cluster  of  rough 
companions  behind  him,  had  a  stimulating  effect  on  the 
crowd.  Not  that  he  did  anything  else  than  pass  beyond 
the  soldiers  and  tlirust  himself  well  among  his  follow 
citizens,  flourishing  his  axe;  but  he  served  as  a  stirring 
symbol  of  street-fighting,  like  the  waving  of  a  well- 
known  gonfalon.  And  the  first  sign  that  fire  was  ready 
to  burst  out  was  something  as  rapid  as  a  little  leaping 
tongue  of  flume:  it  was  an  act  of  the  conjuror's  impish 
lad  Lollo,  who  was  dancing  and  jeering  in  front  of  the 
ingenuous  boys  that  made  the  majority  of  the  crowd. 
[   323   ] 


ROMOLA 

Lollo  had  no  great  compassion  for  the  prisoners,  but 
being  conscious  of  an  excellent  knife  which  was  his  un- 
failing companion,  it  had  seemed  to  him  from  the  first 
that  to  jump  forward,  cut  a  rope,  and  leap  back  again 
before  the  soldier  who  held  it  could  use  his  weapon, 
would  be  an  amusing  and  dexterous  piece  of  mischief. 
And  now,  when  the  people  began  to  hoot  and  jostle  more 
vigorously,  Lollo  felt  that  his  moment  was  come  —  he 
was  close  to  the  eldest  prisoner:  in  an  instant  he  had  cut 
the  cord. 

"Run,  old  one!"  he  piped  in  the  prisoner's  ear,  as 
soon  as  the  cord  was  in  two;  and  himself  set  the  example 
of  running  as  if  he  were  helped  along  with  wings,  like 
a  scared  fowl. 

The  prisoner's  sensations  were  not  too  slow  for  him  to 
seize  the  oppori;unity:  the  idea  of  escape  had  been  con- 
tinually present  with  him,  and  he  had  gathered  fresh 
hope  from  the  temper  of  the  crowd.  He  ran  at  once; 
but  his  speed  would  hardly  have  suflBced  for  him  if  the 
Florentines  had  not  instantaneously  rushed  between  him 
and  his  captor.  He  ran  on  into  the  piazza,  but  he  quickly 
heard  the  tramp  of  feet  behind  him,  for  the  otlier  two 
prisoners  had  been  released,  and  the  soldiers  were  strug- 
gling and  fighting  their  way  after  them,  in  such  tardi- 
grade fashion  as  their  hoof-shaped  shoes  would  allow 
—  impeded,  but  not  very  resolutely  attacked,  by  tlie 
people.  One  of  the  two  younger  prisoners  turned  up 
the  Borgo  di  San  Lorenzo,  and  thus  made  a  partial 
diversion  of  the  hubbub;  but  the  main  struggle  was  still 
towards  the  piazza,  where  all  eyes  were  turned  on  it  with 
alarmed  curiosity.  The  cause  could  not  be  precisely 
[  324  ] 


THE  PRISONERS 

guessed,   for   the   French  dress  was  screened  by  the 
impeding  crowd. 

"An  escape  of  prisoners,"  said  Lorenzo  Tomabuoni, 
as  he  and  his  party  turned  round  just  against  the  steps 
of  the  Duomo,  and  saw  a  prisoner  rushing  by  them. 
"The  people  are  not  content  with  having  emptied  tlie 
Bargello  the  other  day.  If  there  is  no  otlier  authority  in 
sight  they  must  fall  on  the  sbirri  and  secure  freedom 
to  thieves.  Ah!  there  is  a  French  soldier:  that  is  more 
serious." 

The  soldier  he  saw  was  struggling  along  on  the  north 
side  of  the  piazza,  but  tlie  object  of  his  pursuit  had  taken 
the  other  direction.  That  object  was  the  eldest  prisoner, 
who  had  wheeled  round  the  Baptistery  and  was  running 
towards  the  Duomo,  determined  to  take  refuge  in  that 
sanctuary  rather  than  trust  to  his  speed.  But  in  mount- 
ing tlie  steps,  his  foot  received  a  shock;  he  was  precipi- 
tated towards  the  group  of  signori,  whose  backs  were 
turned  to  him,  and  was  only  able  to  recover  his  balance 
as  he  clutched  one  of  them  by  the  arm. 

It  was  Tito  Melema  who  felt  that  clutch.  He  turned 
his  head,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  adoptive  father,  Baldas- 
sarre  Calvo,  close  to  his  own. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  silent  as  deatli: 
Baldassarre,  with  dark  fierceness  and  a  tightening  grip 
of  the  soiled  worn  hands  on  the  velvet-clad  arm;  Tito, 
with  cheeks  and  lips  all  bloodless,  fascinated  by  terror. 
It  seemed  a  long  while  to  them  —  it  was  but  a  moment 

The  first  sound  Tito  heard  was  tlic  sliort  laugh  of 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  who  stooti  close  by  him  and  was  tlie 
only  person  that  could  see  his  face. 
[   325   ] 


ROMOLA 

*'  Ha!  ha!  I  know  what  a  ghost  should  be  now." 
**  This  is  another  escaped  prisoner,"  said  Lorenzo 
Tornabuoni.   "Who  is  he,  I  wonder?" 
^       "Some  madman,  surely,"  said  Tito. 
.,^  He  hardly  knew  how  the  words  had  come  to  his  h'ps: 
'  there  are  moments  when  our  passions  speak  and  decide 
for  us,  and  we  seem  to  stand  by  and  wonder.    They 
carry  in  them  an  inspiration  of  crime,  that  in  one  instant 
j  does  the  wor1<!  of  long  premeditation. 

The  two  men  had  not  taken  their  eyes  ofiF  each  other, 
and  it  seemed  to  Tito,  when  he  had  spoken,  that  some 
magical  poison  had  darted  from  Baldassarre's  eyes,  and 
that  he  felt  it  rushing  through  his  veins.  But  the  next 
instant  the  grasp  on  his  arm  had  relaxed,  and  Baldas- 
sarre  had  disappeared  within  the  church- 


CHAPTER   XXin 
AFTERTHOUGHTS 

You  are  easily  frightened,  though,"  said  Piero,  with 
another  scornful  laugh.  "My  portrait  is  not  as 
good  as  the  original.  But  the  old  fellow  had  a  tiger  look: 
I  must  go  into  the  Duomo  and  see  him  again." 

"It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  laid  hold  of  by  a  madman, 
if  madman  he  be,"  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  in  polite 
excuse  of  Tito,  "but  perhaps  he  is  only  a  ruffian.  We 
shall  hear.  I  think  we  must  see  if  we  have  authority 
enough  to  stop  this  disturbance  between  our  people  and 
your  countrymen,"  he  added,  addressing  the  Frenchman. 

They  advanced  towards  the  crowd  with  their  swords 
drawn,  all  tlie  quiet  spectators  making  an  escort  for 
them.  Tito  went  too:  it  was  necessary  that  he  should 
know  what  others  knew  about  Baldassarre,  and  the 
first  palsy  of  terror  was  being  succeeded  by  the  rapid 
devices  to  which  mortal  danger  will  stimulate  the  timid. 

The  rabble  of  men  and  boys,  more  inclined  to  hoot 
at  the  soldier  and  torment  him  than  to  receive  or  inflict 
any  serious  wounds,  gave  way  at  the  approach  of  signori 
with  drawn  swords,  and  the  French  soldier  was  inter- 
rogated. He  and  his  companions  had  simply  brought 
their  prisoners  into  the  city  that  they  might  beg  money 
for  their  ransom:  two  of  the  prisoners  were  Tuscan 
soldiers  taken  in  Lunigiana;  the  other,  an  elderly  man, 
was  with  a  party  of  Genoese,  with  whom  the  French 
[   327    ] 


ROMOLA 

foragers  had  come  to  blows  near  Fivizzano.  He  might 
be  mad,  but  he  was  harmless.  The  soldier  knew  no 
more,  being  unable  to  understand  a  word  the  old  man 
said.  Tito  heard  so  far,  but  he  was  deaf  to  everything 
else  till  he  was  specially  addressed.  It  was  Tornabuoni 
who  spoke. 

"Will  you  go  back  with  us,  Melema?  Or,  since 
Messere  is  going  off  to  Signa  now,  will  you  wisely  follow 
the  fashion  of  the  times  and  go  to  hear  the  Frate,  who 
will  be  like  the  torrent  at  its  height  this  morning?  It's 
what  we  must  all  do,  you  know,  if  we  are  to  save  our 
Medicean  skins.  I  should  go  if  I  had  the  leisure." 

Tito's  face  had  recovered  its  colour  now,  and  he 
could  make  an  effort  to  speak  with  gaiety. 

"Of  course  I  am  among  the  admirers  of  the  inspired 
orator,"  he  said,  smilingly;  "but,  unfortunately,  I  shall 
be  occupied  with  the  Segretario  till  the  time  of  the  pro- 
cession." 

"Z  am  going  into  the  Duomo  to  look  at  that  savage 
old  man  again,"  said  Piero. 

"Then  have  the  charity  to  show  him  to  one  of  the 
hospitals  for  travellers,  Piero  mio,"  said  Tornabuoni. 
"The  monks  may  find  out  whether  he  wants  putting  into 
a  cage." 

The  party  separated,  and  Tito  took  his  way  to  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  where  he  was  to  find  Bartolommeo 
Scala.  It  was  not  a  long  walk,  but,  for  Tito,  it  was 
stretched  out  like  the  minutes  of  our  morning  dreams: 
the  short  spaces  of  street  and  piazza  held  memories,  and 
previsions,  and  torturing  fears,  that  might  have  made  Uie 
history  of  months.  He  felt  as  if  a  serpent  had  begun  to 
[  328   ] 


AFTERTHOUGHTS 

coil  round  his  limbs.  Baldassarre  living,  and  in  Florence, 
was  a  living  revenge,  which  would  no  more  rest  than  a 
winding  serpent  would  rest  until  it  had  crushed  its  prey. 
It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  tliat  man  to  let  an  injury  pass 
unavenged :  his  love  and  his  hatred  were  of  that  passion- 
ate fer\'our  which  subjugates  all  the  rest  of  the  being, 
and  makes  a  man  sacrifice  himself  to  his  passion  as  if  it 
were  a  deity  to  be  worshipped  with  self-destruction. 
Baldassarre  had  relaxed  his  hold,  and  had  disappeared. 
Tito  knew  well  how  to  interpret  that:  it  meant  that  the 
vengeance  was  to  be  studied  that  it  might  be  sure.  If 
he  had  not  uttered  those  decisive  words  —  "He  is  a  mad- 
man"—  if  he  could  have  summoned  up  the  state  of 
mind,  the  courage,  necessary  for  avowing  his  recogni- 
tion of  Baldassarre,  would  not  the  risk  have  been  less  ? 
He  might  have  declared  himself  to  have  had  what  he 
believed  to  be  positive  evidence  of  Baldassarre's  death; 
and  the  only  persons  who  could  ever  have  had  positive 
knowledge  to  contradict  him  were  Fra  Luca,  who  was 
dead,  and  the  crew  of  the  companion  galley,  who  had 
brought  him  the  news  of  the  encounter  with  the  pirates. 
The  chances  were  infinite  against  Baldassarre's  having 
met  again  with  any  one  of  that  crew,  and  Tito  thought 
witji  bitterness  that  a  timely,  well-devised  falsehood 
might  have  saved  him  from  any  fatal  consequences.  But 
to  have  told  that  falsehood  would  have  required  perfect 
self-command  in  the  moment  of  a  convulsive  shock: 
he  seemed  to  have  spoken  without  any  preconception: 
the  words  had  leaped  forth  like  a  sudden  birth  tliat  had 
been  begotten  and  nourished  in  the  darkness. 
Tito  was  experiencing  tliat  inexorable  law  of  humaQ 
[  329  ] 


ROMOLA 

,    souls,  that  we  prepare  ourselves  for  sudden  deeds  by 

Lthe  reiterated  choice  of  good  or  evil  which  gradually 
determines  character. 

There  was  but  one  chance  for  him  now;  the  chance 
of  Baldassarre's  failure  in  finding  his  revenge.  And 
—  Tito  grasped  at  a  thought  more  actively  cruel  than 
V  any  he  had  ever  encouraged  before :  might  not  his  own 
unpremeditated  words  have  some  truth  in  them? 
Enough  truth,  at  least,  to  bear  him  out  in  his  denial  of 
any  declaration  Baldassarre  might  make  about  him  ? 
The  old  man  looked  strange  and  wild;  with  his  eager 
heart  and  brain,  suffering  was  likely  enough  to  have 
produced  madness.  If  it  were  so,  the  vengeance  that 
strove  to  inflict  disgrace  might  be  baffled. 

But  there  was  another  form  of  vengeance  not  to  be 
baffled  by  ingenious  lying.  Baldassarre  belonged  to 
a  race  to  whom  the  thrust  of  the  dagger  seems  almost 
as  natural  an  impulse  as  the  outleap  of  the  tiger's 
I  talons.  Tito  shrank  with  shuddering  dread  from  dis- 
grace; but  he  had  also  that  physical  dread  which  is  in- 
separable from  a  soft  pleasure-loving  nature,  and  which 
prevents  a  man  from  meeting  wounds  and  deatli  as 
I  a  welcome  relief  from  disgrace.  His  thoughts  flew  at  once 
to  some  hidden  defensive  armour  that  might  save  him 
from  a  vengeance  which  no  subtlety  could  parry. 

He  wondered  at  the  power  of  the  passionate  fear 
that  possessed  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  smitten 
with  a  blighting  disease  that  had  suddenly  turned  tlie 
joyous  sense  of  young  life  into  pain. 

There  was  still  one  resource  open  to  Tito.  He 
might  have  turned  back,  sought  Baldassarre  again, 
[  330   ] 


AFTERTHOUGHTS 

confessed  everj'thing  to  him  —  to  Romola  —  to  all  the 
world.  But  he  never  thought  of  that.  The  repentance 
which  cuts  off  all  moorings  to  evil  demands  some- 
thing more  than  selfish  fear.  He  had  no  sense  that  there 
was  strength  and  safety  in  truth;  the  only  strength 
he  trusted  to  lay  in  his  ingenuity  and  his  dissimulation. 
Now  that  the  first  shock,  which  had  called  up  the  traitor- 
ous signs  of  fear,  was  well  past,  he  hoped  to  be  prepared 
for  all  emergencies  by  cool  deceit  —  and  defensive 
armour. 

It  was  a  characteristic  fact  in  Tito's  experience  at  \ 
this  crisis  that  no  direct  measures  for  ridding  him- 
self of  Baldassarre  ever  occurred  to  him.  All  other 
possibilities  passed  through  his  mind,  even  to  his  own 
flight  from  Florence ;  but  he  never  thought  of  any  scheme 
for  removing  his  enemy.  His  dread  generated  no  active 
malignity,  and  he  would  still  have  been  glad  not  to  give 
pain  to  any  mortal.  He  had  simply  chosen  to  make 
life  easy  to  himself  —  to  carry  his  human  lot,  if  possible, 
in  such  a  way  that  it  should  pinch  nowhere;  and  the 
choice  had,  at  various  times,  landed  him  in  unexpected 
positions.  The  question  now  was,  not  whether  he  should 
divide  the  common  pressure  of  destiny  with  his  suffering 
fellow  men;  it  was  whether  all  the  resources  of  lying 
would  save  him  from  being  crushed  by  the  conse-  / 
quences  of  that  habitual  choioe.  ^ 


CHAPTER   XXIV 
INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

WHEN  Baldassarre,  with  his  hands  bound  together, 
and  the  rope  round  his  neck  and  body,  pushed 
his  way  behind  the  curtain,  and  saw  the  interior  of  the 
Duomo  before  him,  he  gave  a  start  of  astonishment, 
and  stood  still  against  the  doorway.  He  had  expected 
to  see  a  vast  nave  empty  of  everj'thing  but  lifeless 
emblems  —  side  altars  with  candles  unlit,  dim  pictures, 
pale  and  rigid  statues  —  with  perhaps  a  few  worshippers 
in  the  distant  choir  following  a  monotonous  chant.  That 
was  the  ordinary  aspect  of  churches  to  a  man  who 
never  went  into  them  with  any  religious  purpose. 

And  he  saw,  instead,  a  vast  multitude  of  warm, 
living  faces,  upturned  in  breathless  silence  towards  the 
pulpit,  at  the  angle  between  the  nave  and  the  choir. 
The  multitude  was  of  all  ranks,  from  magistrates 
and  dames  of  gentle  nurture  to  coarsely-clad  artisans 
and  country  people.  In  tlie  pulpit  was  a  Dominican 
friar,  with  strong  features  and  dark  hair,  preaching 
with  the  crucifix  in  his  hand. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  Baldassarre  noted  nothing 
of  his  preaching.  Silent  as  his  entrance  had  been, 
some  eyes  near  the  doorway  had  been  turned  on  him 
with  surprise  and  suspicion.  The  rope  indicated 
plainly  enough  that  he  was  an  escaped  prisoner,  but 
in  that  case  the  churcli  was  a  sanctuary  which  he  had 
[  332  ] 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

a  right  to  claim;  his  advanced  years  and  look  of  wild 
misery  were  fitted  to  excite  pity  rather  than  alarm; 
and  as  he  stood  motionless,  with  eyes  that  soon  wan- 
dered absently  from  the  wide  scene  before  him  to  the 
pavement  at  his  feet,  those  who  had  observed  his 
entrance  presently  ceased  to  regard  him,  and  became 
absorbed  again  in  the  stronger  interest  of  hstening  to 
the  sennon. 

Among  the  eyes  that  had  been  turned  towards  him 
were  Romola's:  she  had  entered  late  through  one  of 
tlie  side  doors  and  was  so  placed  that  she  had  a  full 
view  of  the  main  entrance.  She  had  looked  long  and 
attentively  at  Baldassarre,  for  grey  hairs  made  a  pe- 
culiar appeal  to  her,  and  the  stamp  of  some  unwonted 
suflFering  in  the  face,  confirmed  by  the  cord  round  his 
neck,  stirred  in  her  those  sensibilities  towards  the  sor- 
rows of  age,  which  her  whole  life  had  tended  to  develop. 
She  fancied  that  his  eyes  had  met  hers  in  their  first 
wandering  gaze;  but  Baldassarre  had  not,  in  reality, 
noted  her;  he  had  only  had  a  startled  consciousness  of 
the  general  scene,  and  the  consciousness  was  a  mere 
flash  that  made  no  perceptible  break  in  the  fierce  tu- 
mult of  emotion  which  the  encounter  with  Tito  had 
created.  Images  from  the  past  kept  urging  tlicm- 
selves  upon  him  like  delirious  visions  strangely  blended 
with  thirst  and  anguish.  No  distinct  thought  for  the 
future  could  shape  itself  in  the  midst  of  that  fiery  pas- 
sion: the  nearest  approach  to  such  tliought  was  the 
bitter  sense  of  enfeebled  powers,  and  a  vague  deter- 
mination to  universal  distrust  and  suspicion.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  himself  vibrating  to  loud  tones,  which 
[  333  ] 


ROMOLA 

seemed  like  the  thundering  echo  of  his  own  passion. 
A  voice  that  penetrated  his  very  marrow  with  its  ac- 
cent of  triumphant  certiJtude  was  saying  —  "The  day 
y)f  vengeance  is  at  hand!" 

4  Baldassarre  quivered  and  looked  up.  He  was  too 
distant  to  see  more  than  the  general  aspect  of  the 
preacher  standing,  with  his  right  arm  outstretched,  lift- 
ing up  the  crucifix;  but  he  panted  for  the  threatening 
voice  again  as  if  it  had  been  a  promise  of  bliss.  There 
was  a  pause  before  the  preacher  spoke  again.  He 
gradually  lowered  his  arm.  He  deposited  the  crucifix 
on  the  edge  of  the  pulpit,  and  crossed  his  arms  over  his 
breast,  looking  round  at  the  multitude  as  if  he  would 
meet  the  glance  of  every  individual  face. 

"All  ye  in  Florence  are  my  witnesses,  for  I  spoke 
not  in  a  corner.  Ye  are  my  witnesses,  that  four  years 
ago,  when  there  were  yet  no  signs  of  war  and  tribula- 
tion, I  preached  the  coming  of  the  scourge.  I  lifted  up 
my  voice  as  a  trumpet  to  the  prelates  and  princes  and 
people  of  Italy  and  said.  The  cup  of  your  iniquity  is 
full.  Behold,  the  thunder  of  the  Lord  is  gathering,  and 
it  shall  fall  and  break  the  cup,  and  your  iniquity,  which 
seems  to  you  as  pleasant  wine,  shall  be  poured  out  upon 
you,  and  shall  be  as  molten  lead.  And  you,  O  priests, 
who  say,  Ha,  ha!  there  is  no  Presence  in  the  sanctuary 
—  tlie  Shechinah  is  nought  —  the  Mercy -seat  is  bare: 
we  may  sin  behind  the  veil,  and  who  shall  punish  us  ? 
To  you,  I  said,  the  presence  of  God  shall  be  revealed 
in  his  temple  as  a  consuming  fire,  and  your  sacred  gar- 
ments shall  become  a  winding-sheet  of  flame,  and  for 
sweet  music  there  shall  be  shrieks  and  hissing,  and  for 
[  33-1,  ] 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

soft  couches  there  shall  be  thorns,  and  for  the  breath 
of  wantons  shall  come  the  pestilence.  Trust  not  in  your 
gold  and  silver,  trust  not  in  your  high  fortresses;  for, 
though  the  walls  were  of  iron,  and  the  fortresses  of 
adamant,  the  Most  High  shall  put  terror  into  your 
hearts  and  weakness  into  your  councils,  so  that  you  shall 
be  confounded  and  flee  like  women.  He  shall  break  in 
pieces  mighty  men  without  number,  and  put  others  in 
their  stead.  For  God  will  no  longer  endure  the  pollu- 
tion of  his  sanctuary;  he  will  thoroughly  purge  his 
Church. 

"And  forasmuch  as  it  is  written  that  God  will  do 
nothing  but  he  revealeth  it  to  his  servants  the  prophets, 
he  has  chosen  me,  his  unworthy  servant,  and  made 
his  purpose  present  to  my  soul  in  the  living  word  of 
the  Scriptures,  and  in  the  deeds  of  his  providence;  and 
by  the  ministry  of  angels  he  has  revealed  it  to  me  in 
visions.  And  his  word  possesses  me  so  that  I  am  but 
as  the  branch  of  the  forest  when  the  wind  of  heaven 
penetrates  it,  and  it  is  not  in  me  to  keep  silence,  even 
though  I  may  be  a  derision  to  the  scomer.  And  for 
four  years  I  have  preached  in  obedience  to  the  Divine 
will:  in  the  face  of  scoffing  I  have  preached  tliree  tilings, 
which  the  Lord  has  delivered  to  me:  that  in  these  times 
God  will  regenerate  his  Church,  and  that  before  tlie  re-  . 
generation  must  come  the  scourge  over  all  Italy,  and  3 
that  these  things  will  come  quickly. 

"But  hypocrites  who  cloak  thefr  hatred  of  the  truth 

with  a  show  of  love  have  said  to  me,  'Come  now, 

Frate,    leave  your  prophesyings :    it  is  enough  to  teach 

virtue.'  To  these  I  answer:  'Yes,  you  say  in  your  hearts, 

[  335   ] 


ROMOLA 

God  lives  afar  off,  and  his  word  is  as  a  parchment 
written  by  dead  men,  and  he  deals  not  as  in  the 
days  of  old,  rebuking  the  nations,  and  punishing  the 
oppressors,  and  smiting  the  unholy  priests  as  he  smote 
the  sons  of  Eli.  But  I  cry  again  in  your  ears:  God  is 
near  and  not  afar  off;  his  judgements  change  not.  He 
is  the  God  of  armies;  the  strong  men  who  go  up  to 
battle  are  his  ministers,  even  as  the  storm  and  fire 
and  pestilence.  He  drives  them  by  the  breatli  of  his 
angels,  and  they  come  upon  the  chosen  land  which 
has  forsaken  the  covenant.  And  thou,  O  Italy,  art  the 
chosen  land;  has  not  God  placed  his  sanctuary  within 
thee,  and  thou  hast  polluted  it?  Behold,  the  ministers 
of  his  wrath  are  upon  thee  —  they  are  at  thy  very 
doors!" 

Savonarola's  voice  had  been  rising  in  impassioned 
force  up  to  this  point,  when  he  became  suddenly  silent, 
let  his  hands  fall  and  clasped  them  quietly  before  him. 
His  silence,  instead  of  being  the  signal  for  small  move- 
ments amongst  his  audience,  seemed  to  be  as  strong 
a  spell  to  them  as  his  voice.  Through  the  vast  area  of 
the  cathedral  men  and  women  sat  with  faces  upturned, 
like  breathing  statues,  till  the  voice  was  heard  again  in 
clear  low  tones. 

"Yet  there  is  a  pause  —  even  as  in  the  days  when 
Jerusalem  was  destroyed  there  was  a  pause  tliat  tlie 
children  of  God  might  flee  from  it.  There  is  a  stillness 
before  the  storm :  lo,  there  is  blackness  above,  but  not  a 
leaf  quakes:  the  winds  are  stayed,  that  the  voice  of  Gt)d's 
Warning  may  be  heard.  Hear  it  now,  O  Florence,  chosen 
city  in  the  chosen  land!  Repent  and  forsake  evil:  do 
[  336   ] 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

justice:  love  mercy :  put  away  all  uncleannessfrom  among 
you,  that  the  spirit  of  truth  and  holiness  may  fill  your 
souls  and  breathe  through  all  your  streets  and  habita- 
tions, and  then  the  pestilence  shall  not  enter,  and  the 
sword  shall  pass  over  you  and  leave  you  unhurt. 

"For  the  sword  is  hanging  from  the  sky;  it  is  quiver- 
ing; it  is  about  to  fall !  The  sword  of  God  upon  the  earth, 
s^vift  and  sudden!  Did  I  not  tell  you,  years  ago,  that  I 
had  beheld  the  vision  and  heard  the  voice  ?  And  behold, 
it  is  fulfilled !  Is  there  not  a  king  with  his  army  at  your 
gates  ?  Does  not  the  earth  shake  with  the  tread  of  horses 
and  the  wheels  of  swift  cannon  ?  Is  there  not  a  fierce 
multitude  that  can  lay  bare  the  land  as  with  a  sharp 
razor  ?  I  tell  you  the  French  King  with  his  army  is  the 
minister  of  God:  God  shall  guide  him  as  the  hand  guides 
a  sharp  sickle,  and  the  joints  of  the  wicked  shall  melt 
before  him,  and  they  shall  be  mown  down  as  stubble; 
he  that  fleeth  of  them  shall  not  flee  away,  and  he  that 
escapeth  of  them  shall  not  be  delivered.  And  tlie  tyrants 
who  have  made  to  themselves  a  throne  out  of  the  vices 
of  the  multitude,  and  the  unbelieving  priests  who  traflSc 
in  the  souls  of  men  and  fill  the  very  sanctuary  with  for- 
nication, shall  be  hurled  from  their  soft  couches  into 
burning  hell;  and  the  pagans  and  they  who  sinned  under 
the  old  covenant  shall  stand  aloof  and  say:  'Lo,  these 
men  have  brought  tlie  stench  of  a  new  wickedness  into 
the  everlasting  fire.' 

"But  thou,  O  Florence,  take  the  offered  mercy.  See! 
the  Cross  is  held  out  to  you :  come  and  be  healed.  Wliich 
among  the  nations  of  Italy  has  had  a  token  like  unto 
yours  ?   The  tyrant  is  driven  out  from  among  you:  the' 
[   337  ]    . 


ROMOLA 

men  who  held  a  bribe  in  their  left  hand  and  a  rod  in  the 
right  are  gone  forth,  and  no  blood  has  been  spilled. 
And  now  put  away  every  other  abomination  from  among 
you,  and  you  shall  be  strong  in  the  strength  of  the  living 
God.  Wash  yourselves  from  the  black  pitch  of  your 
vices,  which  have  made  you  even  as  the  heathens:  put 
away  the  envy  and  hatred  that  have  made  your  city  as 
a  nest  of  wolves.  And  there  shall  no  harm  happen  to 
you:  and  the  passage  of  armies  shall  be  to  you  as  a 
flight  of  birds,  and  rebellious  Pisa  shall  be  given  to  you 
again,  and  famine  and  pestilence  shall  be  far  from 
your  gates,  and  you  shall  be  as  a  beacon  among  the 
nations.  But,  mark!  while  you  suffer  the  accursed 
thing  to  lie  in  the  camp  you  shall  be  afflicted  and  tor- 
mented, even  though  a  remnant  among  you  may  be 
saved." 

These  admonitions  and  promises  had  been  spoken  in 
an  incisive  tone  of  authority;  but  in  the  next  sentence 
the  preacher's  voice  melted  into  a  strain  of  entreaty. 

"Listen,  O  people,  over  whom  my  heart  yearns,  as  the 
heart  of  a  mother  over  the  children  she  has  travailed  for! 
^  God  is  my  witness  that  but  for  your  sakes  I  would  will- 
ingly live  as  a  turtle  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  singing 
low  to  my  Beloved,  who  is  mine  and  I  am  his.  For  you 
I  toil,  for  you  I  languish,  for  you  my  nights  are  spent  in 
watching,  and  my  soul  melteth  away  for  very  hea\iness. 
O  Lord,  thou  knowest  I  am  willing  —  I  am  ready.  Take 
me,  stretch  me  on  thy  cross:  let  the  wicked  who  deliglit 
in  blood,  and  rob  the  poor,  and  defile  the  temple  of  their 
bodies,  and  harden  tliemselves  against  tliy  mercy  —  let 
them  wag  tlieir  heads  and  shoot  out  tlie  lip  at  me:  let 
[  338  ] 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

the  thorns  press  upon  my  brow,  and  let  my  sweat  be 
anguish  —  I  desire  to  be  made  like  tliee  in  thy  great  love. 
But  let  me  see  the  fruit  of  my  travail  —  let  this  people 
be  saved!  Let  me  see  them  clothed  in  purity;  let  me 
hear  their  voices  rise  in  concord  as  the  voices  of  the 
angels;  let  them  see  no  wisdom  but  in  thy  eternal  law, 
no  beauty  but  in  holiness.  Then  they  shall  lead  the  way 
before  tlie  nations,  and  the  people  from  the  four  winds 
shall  follow  them,  and  be  gathered  into  the  fold  of  the 
blessed.  For  it  is  thy  will,  O  God,  that  tlie  earth  shall 
be  converted  unto  thy  law :  it  is  thy  will  that  wickedness 
shall  cease  and  love  shall  reign.  Come,  O  blessed  pro- 
mise; and  behold,  I  am  willing  —  lay  me  on  the  altar: 
let  my  blood  flow  and  the  fire  consume  me,  but  let  my 
witness  be  remembered  among  men,  that  iniquity  shall 
not  prosper  for  ever."  * 

During  tlie  last  appeal,  Savonarola  had  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven;  his  strong 
voice  had  alternately  trembled  with  emotion  and  risen 
again  in  renewed  energy;  but  the  passion  with  which  he 
offered  himself  as  a  victim  became  at  last  too  strong  to 
allow  of  further  speech,  and  he  ended  in  a  sob.  Every 
changing  tone,  vibrating  through  the  audience,  shook 
them  into  answering  emotion.  There  were  plenty  among 
tliem  who  had  verj'  moderate  faith  in  tlie  Frate's  pro- 
phetic mission,  and  who  in  their  cooler  moments  loved 
him  little;  nevertheless,  they  too  were  carried  along  by 
the  great  wave  of  feeling  which  gathered  its  force  from 

'  The  sermon  here  >,Mven  is  not  a  translation,  but  a  free  repre- 
sentation of  Fra  Girolamo's  preaehing  in  its  more  impassioned 
moments. 

[  339  ] 


y 


,^ 


ROMOLA 

sympathies  that  lay  deeper  than  all  theory.  A  loud 
responding  sob  rose  at  once  from  the  wide  multitude, 
while  Savonarola  had  fallen  on  his  knees  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  mantle.  He  felt  in  that  moment  the  rapture 
and  glory  of  martyrdom  without  its  agony. 

In  that  great  sob  of  the  multitude  Baldassarre's  had 
mingled.  Among  all  the  human  beings  present,  there 
was  perhaps  not  one  whose  frame  vibrated  more  strongly 
than  his  to  the  tones  and  words  of  the  preacher;  but  it 
had  vibrated  like  a  harp  of  which  all  the  strings  had  been 
wrenched  away  except  one.  That  threat  of  a  fiery  inex- 
orable vengeance  —  of  a  future  into  which  the  hated 
sinner  might  be  pursued  and  held  by  the  avenger  in  an 
eternal  grapple,  had  come  to  him  like  the  promise  of 
an  unquenchable  fountain  to  unquenchable  thirst.  The 
doctrines  of  the  sages,  the  old  contempt  for  priestly 
superstitions,  had  fallen  away  from  his  soul  like  a  for- 
gotten language:  if  he  could  have  remembered  them, 
what  answer  could  they  have  given  to  his  great  need  like 
the  answer  given  by  this  voice  of  energetic  conuction  ? 
The  thunder  of  denunciation  fell  on  his  passion-wrought 
nerves  with  all  the  force  of  self -evidence :  his  thought 
never  went  beyond  it  into  questions  —  he  was  possessed 
by  it  as  the  war-horse  is  possessed  by  the  clash  of  sounds. 
No  word  that  was  not  a  threat  touched  his  conscious- 
ness; he  had  no  fibre  to  be  thrilled  by  it.  But  the  fierce 
exultant  delight  to  which  he  was  moved  by  tlie  idea  of 
perpetual  vengeance  found  at  once  a  climax  and  a  re- 
lieving outburst  in  the  preacher's  words  of  self-sacrifice. 
To  Baldassarre  tliose  words  only  brought  tlie  vague 
triumphant  sense  that  he  too  was  devoting  himself  — • 
[  340  ] 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

signing  with  his  own  blood  the  deed  by  which  he  gave 
himself  over  to  an  unending  fire,  that  would  seem  but 
coolness  to  his  burning  hatred. 

"I  rescued  him  —  I  cherished  him  —  if  I  might 
clutch  his  heart-strings  for  ever!  Come,  O  blessed  pro- 
mise! Let  my  blood  flow;  let  the  fire  consume  me!" 

The  one  cord  vibrated  to  its  utmost.  Baldassarre 
clutched  his  own  palms,  driving  his  long  nails  into  them, 
and  burst  into  a  sob  with  the  rest. 


CHAPTER   XXV 
OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

WHILE  Baldassarre  was  possessed  by  the  voice  of 
Savonarola,  he  had  not  noticed  that  another 
man  had  entered  through  the  doorway  behind  him,  and 
stood  not  far  off  observing  him.  It  was  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
who  took  no  heed  of  the  preaching,  having  come  solely 
to  look  at  the  escaped  prisoner.  During  the  pause,  in 
which  the  preacher  and  his  audience  had  given  them- 
selves up  to  inarticulate  emotion,  the  new-comer 
advanced  and  touched  Baldassarre  on  the  arm.  He 
looked  round  with  the  tears  still  slowly  rolling  down 
his  face,  but  with  a  vigorous  sigh,  as  if  he  had  done 
with  that  outburst.  The  painter  spoke  to  him  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Shall  I  cut  your  cords  for  you  ?  I  have  heard  how 
you  were  made  prisoner." 

Baldassarre  did  not  reply  immediately;  he  glanced 
suspiciously  at  the  officious  stranger.  At  last  he  said, 
"If  you  will." 

"Better  come  outside,"  said  Piero. 

Baldassarre  again  looked  at  him  suspiciously;  and 
Piero,  partly  guessing  his  thought,  smiled,  took  out  a 
laiife,  and  cut  the  cords.  He  began  to  think  that  the 
idea  of  the  prisoner's  madness  was  not  improbable, 
there  was  something  so  peculiar  in  tlie  expression  of  his 
face.  "Well,"  he  thought,  "if  he  does  any  mischief,  he'll 
[  342  ] 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

soon  get  tied  up  again.    The  poor  devil  shall  have  a 
chance,  at  least." 

"You  are  afraid  of  me,"  he  said  again,  in  an  under- 
tone; "you  don't  want  to  tell  me  anj^hing  about  your- 
self." 

Baldassarre  was  folding  his  arms  in  enjoyment  of  the 
long-absent  muscular  sensation.  He  answered  Piero 
with  a  less  suspicious  look  and  a  tone  which  had  some 
quiet  decision  in  it. 

"No,  I  have  nothing  to  tell." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Piero;  "but  perhaps  you  want 
shelter,  and  may  not  know  how  hospitable  we  Floren- 
tines are  to  visitors  with  torn  doublets  and  empty  stom- 
achs. There's  an  hospital  for  poor  travellers  outside 
all  our  gates,  and,  if  you  liked,  I  could  put  you  in  the  way 
to  one.  There's  no  danger  from  your  French  soldier.  He 
has  been  sent  off." 

Baldassarre  nodded,  and  turned  in  silent  acceptance 
of  the  offer,  and  he  and  Piero  left  the  church  together. 

"You  would  n't  like  to  sit  to  me  for  your  portrait, 
should  you  ?"  said  Piero,  as  they  went  along  the  Via  dell' 
Oriuolo,  on  the  way  to  the  gate  of  Santa  Croce.  "I  am 
a  painter:  I  would  give  you  money  to  get  your  portrait." 

The  suspicion  returned  into  Baldassarre 's  glance,  as 
he  looked  at  Piero,  and  said  decidedly,  "No." 

" Ah !"  said  the  painter,  curtly.  "Well,  go  straight  on, 
and  you'll  find  the  Porta  Santa  Croce,  and  outside  it 
there's  an  hospital  for  travellers.  So  you'll  not  accept 
any  service  from  me.''" 

"I  give  you  thanks  for  what  you  have  done  already. 
I  need  no  more." 

[  343  ] 


,/ 


ROMOLA 

"It  is  well,"  said  Piero,  with  a  shrug,  and  they  turned 
away  from  each  other. 

"A  mysterious  old  tiger!"  thought  the  artist,  "well 
worth  painting.-  Ugly  —  with  deep  lines — looking 
if  the  plough  and  the  harrow  had  gone  over  his  hea 
A  fine  contrast  to  my  bland  and  smiling  Messer  Greco 
—  my  Bacco  trionfantey  who  has  married  the  fair  Anti- 
gone in  contradiction  to  all  history  and  fitness.  Aha! 
his  scholar's  blood  curdled  uncomfortably  at  the  old 
fellow's  clutch!" 

When  Piero  re-entered  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  the 
multitude  who  had  been  listening  to  Fra  Girolamo  were 
pouring  out  from  all  the  doors,  and  the  haste  they  made 
to  go  on  their  several  ways  was  a  proof  how  important 
they  held  the  preaching  which  had  detained  them  from 
the  other  occupations  of  the  day.  The  artist  leaned 
against  an  angle  of  the  Baptistery  and  watched  the 
departing  crowd,  delighting  in  the  variety  of  the  garbs 
and  of  the  keen  characteristic  faces  —  faces  such  as 
Masaccio  had  painted  more  than  fifty  years  before: 
such  as  Domenico  Ghirlandajo  had  not  yet  quite  left 
off  painting. 

This  morning  was  a  peculiar  occasion,  and  tlie  Frate's 
audience,  always  multifarious,  had  represented  even 
more  completely  than  usual  the  various  classes  and  poli- 
tical parties  of  Florence.  There  were  men  of  high  birth, 
accustomed  to  public  charges  at  home  and  abroad,  who 
had  become  newly  conspicuous  not  only  as  enemies  of 
the  Medici  and  friends  of  popular  government,  but  as 
thorough  Piagnoni,  espousing  to  tlie  utmost  the  doctrines 
and  practical  teaching  of  tlie  Frate,  and  frequenting  San 
[  844  ] 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

Marco  as  the  seat  of  another  Samuel :  some  of  them  men 
of  authoritative  and  handsome  presence,  like  Francesco 
Valori,  and  perhaps  also  of  a  hot  and  arrogant  temper, 
very  much  gratified  by  an  immediate  divine  authority 
for  bringing  about  freedom  in  their  own  way;  others, 
like  Soderini,  with  less  of  the  ardent  Piagnone,  and  more 
of  the  wise  politician.  There  were  men,  also  of  family, 
like  Piero  Capponi,  simply  brave  undoctrinal  lovers  of 
a  sober  republican  liberty,  who  preferred  fighting  to  ar- 
guing, and  had  no  particular  reasons  for  thinking  any 
ideas  false  that  kept  out  the  Medici  and  made  room  for 
public  spirit.  At  their  elbows  were  doctors  of  law  whose 
studies  of  Accursius  and  his  brethren  had  not  so  entirely 
consumed  their  ardour  as  to  prevent  them  from  becom- 
ing enthusiastic  Piagnoni :  Messer  Luca  Corsini  himself, 
for  example,  who  on  a  memorable  occasion  yet  to  come 
was  to  raise  his  learned  arms  in  street  stone-throwing 
for  the  cause  of  religion,  freedom,  and  the  Frate.  And 
among  the  dignities  who  carried  their  black  lucco  or 
furred  mantle  with  an  air  of  habitual  authority,  there 
was  an  abundant  sprinkling  of  men  with  more  contem- 
plative and  sensitive  faces :  scholars  inheriting  such  high 
names  as  Strozzi  and  Acciajoli,  who  were  already 
minded  to  take  the  cowl  and  join  the  community  of  San 
Marco;  artists,  wrought  to  a  new  and  higher  ambition 
by  the  teaching  of  Savonarola,  like  that  young  painter 
who  had  lately  surpassed  himself  in  his  fresco  of  the 
Divine  child  on  the  wall  of  tlie  Frate 's  bare  cell  — un- 
conscious yet  tliat  he  would  one  day  himself  wear  the 
tonsure  and  the  cowl,  and  be  called  Fra  Bartolommeo. 
There  was  the  mystic  poet  Girolamo  Benevieni  hasten- 
[  345   ] 


ROMOLA 

ing,  perhaps,  to  cany  tidings  of  the  beloved  Fratc's 
speedy  coming  to  his  friend  Pico  della  Mirandola,  who 
was  never  to  see  the  light  of  another  morning.  There 
were  well-born  women  attired  with  such  scrupulous 
plainness  that  their  more  refined  grace  was  the  chief 
distinction  between  them  and  their  less  aristocratic 
sisters.  There  was  a  predominant  proportion  of  the 
genuine  popolani  or  middle  class,  belonging  both  to  the 
Major  and  Minor  Arts,  conscious  of  purses  threatened 
by  war  taxes.  And  more  striking  and  various,  perhaps, 
than  all  the  other  classes  of  the  Frate's  disciples,  there 
was  the  long  stream  of  poorer  tradesmen  and  artisans, 
whose  faith  and  hope  in  his  Divine  message  varied  from 
the  rude  and  undiscriminating  trust  in  him  as  the  friend 
of  the  poor  and  the  enemy  of  the  luxurious  oppressive 
rich,  to  that  eager  tasting  of  all  the  subtleties  of  biblical 
interpretation  which  takes  a  peculiarly  strong  hold  oa 
the  sedentary  artisan,  illuminating  the  long  dim  spaces, 
beyond  the  board  where  he  stitches,  with  a  pale  flame 
that  seems  to  him  the  light  of  Divine  science. 

But  among  these  various  disciples  of  the  Frate  were 
scattered  many  who  were  not  in  the  least  his  disciples. 
Some  were  Mediceans  who  had  already,  from  motives 
of  fear  and  policy,  begun  to  show  the  presiding  spirit  of 
the  popular  party  a  feigned  deference.  Others  were 
sincere  advocates  of  a  free  government,  but  regarded 
Savonarola  simply  as  an  ambitious  monk  —  half-saga- 
cious, half -fanatical  —  who  had  made  himself  a  power- 
ful instrument  witli  the  people,  and  must  be  accepted 
as  an  important  social  fact.  There  were  even  some  of 
his  bitter  enemies:  members  of  tlie  old  aristocratic  aati- 
[  346   ] 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO 

Medi'cean  party  —  determined  to  try  and  get  the  reins 
once  more  tight  in  the  hands  of  certain  chief  families; 
or  else  licentious  young  men,  who  detested  him  as  tlie 
killjoy  of  Florence.  For  tlie  sermons  in  the  Duomo  had 
already  become  f)olitical  incidents,  attracting  the  ears 
of  curiosity  and  malice,  as  well  as  of  faith.  The  men  of 
ideas,  like  young  Niccolo  Macchiavelli,  went  to  observe 
and  write  reports  to  friends  away  in  country  villas;  the 
men  of  appetites,  like  Dolfo  Spini,  bent  on  hunting 
down  the  Frate,  as  a  public  nuisance  who  made  game  ' 
scarce,  went  to  feed  their  hatred  and  lie  in  wait  for 
grounds  of  accusation. 

Perhaps,  while  no  preacher  ever  had  a  more  massive 
influence  than  Savonarola,  no  preacher  ever  had  more 
heterogeneous  materials  to  work  upon.  And  one  secret 
of  the  massive  influence  lay  in  the  highly  mixed  char- 
acter of  his  preaching.  Baldassarre,  wrought  into  an 
ecstasy  of  self -martyring  revenge,  was  only  an  extreme 
case  among  the  partial  and  narrow  sympatliies  of  that 
audience.  In  Savonarola's  preaching  there  were  stniiiis 
that  appealed  to  the  very  finest  susceptibilities  of  men's 
natures,  and  there  were  elements  that  gratified  low  ego- 
ism, tickled  gossiping  curiosity,  and  fascinated  timorous 
superstition.  His  need  of  personal  predominance,  his~] 
labyrinthine  allegorical  interpretations  of  tiic  Scriptures,  ' 
his  enigmatic  visions,  and  his  false  certitude  about  llie 
Divine  intentions,  never  ceased,  in  his  own  large  soul, 
to  be  ennobled  by  tliat  fervid  piety,  that  passionate 
sense  of  the  infinite,  tliat  active  sympathy,  that  clear- 
sighted demand  for  the  subjection  of  selfish  interests  to 
the  general  good,  which  he  had  in  common  with  the 
[   347   ] 


ROMOLA 

/  greatest  of  mankind.  But  for  the  mass  of  his  audience 
^^11  the  pregnancy  of  his  preaching  lay  in  his  strong 
assertion  of  supernatural  claims,  in  his  denunciatory 
visions,  in  the  false  certitude  which  gave  his  sermons 
the  interest  of  a  political  bulletin ;  and  having  once  held 
that  audience  in  his  mastery,  it  was  necessary  to  his 
nature  —  it  was  necessary  for  their  welfare  —  that  he 
should  keej)  the  mastery.  The  effect  was  inevitable. 
No  man  ever  struggled  to  retain  power  over  a  mixed 
multitude  without  suffering  vitiation;  his  standard  must 
be  their  lower  needs  and  not  his  own  best  insight. 
'  The  mysteries  of  human  character  have  seldom  been 

presented  in  a  way  more  fitted  to  check  the  judgements 
of  facile  knowingness  than  in  Girolamo  Savonarola ;  but 
we  can  give  him  a  reverence  that  needs  no  shutting  of 
the  eyes  to  fact,  if  we  regard  his  life  as  a  drama  in  which 
there  were  great  inward  modifications  accompanying  the 
outward  changes.  And  up  to  this  period,  when  his  more 
direct  action  on  political  affairs  had  only  just  begun,  it 
is  probable  that  his  imperious  need  of  ascendancy  had 
burned  undiscemibly  in  the  strong  flame  of  his  zeal  for 
God  and  man. 

It  was  the  fashion  of  old,  when  an  ox  was  led  out  for 
sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  to  chalk  the  dark  spots,  and  give 
the  oflfering  a  false  show  of  unblemished  whiteness. 
Let  us  fling  away  the  chalk,  and  boldly  say,  —  the  vic- 
tim is  spotted,  but  it  is  not  therefore  in  vain  that  his 
mighty  heart  is  laid  on  the  altar  of  men's  highest  hopes. 


[ 


CHAPTER   XXVI 
THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR 

AT  six  o'clock  that  evening  most  people  in  Florence 
were  glad  the  entrance  of  the  new  Charlemagne 
was  fairly  over.  Doubtless  when  the  roll  of  drums,  the 
blast  of  trumpets,  and  the  tramp  of  horses  along  the 
Pisan  road  began  to  mingle  with  the  pealing  of  the  ex- 
cited bells,  it  was  a  grand  moment  for  those  who  were 
stationed  on  turreted  roofs,  and  could  see  the  long-wind- 
ing terrible  pomp  on  the  background  of  the  green  hills 
and  valley.  There  was  no  sunshine  to  light  up  the  splen- 
dour of  banners  and  spears  and  plumes  and  silken 
surcoats,  but  there  was  no  thick  cloud  of  dust  to  hide  it, 
and  as  the  picked  troops  advanced  into  close  view,  they 
could  be  seen  all  the  more  distinctly  for  the  absence  of 
dancing  glitter.  Tall  and  tough  Scotch  archers,  Swiss 
halberdiers  fierce  and  ponderous,  nimble  Gascons  ready 
to  wheel  and  climb,  cavalry  in  which  each  man  looked 
like  a  knight-errant  with  his  indomitable  spear  and 
charger  —  it  was  satisfactory  to  be  assured  that  they 
would  injure  nobody  but  the  enemies  of  God!  Witli  tliat 
confidence  at  heart  it  was  a  less  dubious  pleasure  to 
look  at  tlie  array  of  strength  and  splendour  in  nobles 
and  knights,  and  youthful  pages  of  choice  lineage — at 
the  bossed  and  jewelled  sword-hilts,  at  the  satin  scarfs 
embroidered  with  strange  symbolical  devices  of  pious 
or  gallant  meaning,  at  tlie  gold  chains  and  jewelled 
[  349  ] 


ROMOLA 

aigrettes,  at  the  gorgeous  horse-trappings  and  brocaded 
mantles,  and  at  the  transcendant  canopy  carried  by  se- 
lect youths  above  the  head  of  the  Most  Christian  King. 
To  sum  up  with  an  old  diarist,  whose  spelling  and  dic- 
tion halted  a  little  behind  the  wonders  of  this  royal  visit, 

—  "/w  gran  magnificenza." 

But  for  the  Signoria,  who  had  been  waiting  on  their 
platform  against  the  gates,  and  had  to  march  out  at  the 
right  moment,  with  their  orator  in  front  of  them,  to  meet 
the  mighty  guest,  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  had  been 
somewhat  screened  by  unpleasant  sensations.  If  Messer 
Luca  Corsini  could  have  had  a  brief  Latin  welcome 
depending  from  his  mouth  in  legible  characters,  it  would 
have  been  less  confusing  when  the  rain  came  on,  and 
created  an  impatience  in  men  and  horses  that  broke  off 
the  delivery  of  his  well-studied  periods,  and  reduced  tlie 
representatives  of  the  scholarly  city  to  offer  a  make- 
shift welcome  in  impromptu  French.  But  that  sudden 
confusion  had  created  a  great  opportunity  for  Tito.  As 
one  of  tlie  secretaries  he  was  among  tlie  officials  who 
were  stationed  behind  the  Signoria,  and  witli  whom 
these  highest  dignities  were  promiscuously  thrown  when 
pressed  upon  by  tlie  horses. 

"Somebody  step  forward  and  say  a  few  words  in 
French,"  said  Soderini.  But  no  one  of  high  importance 
chose  to  risk  a  second  failure.   "You,  Francesco  Gaddi 

—  you  can  speak."  But  Gaddi,  distrusting  his  own 
promptness,  hung  back,  and  pushing  Tito,  said,  "You, 
Melema." 

Tito  stepped  forward  in  an  instant,  and,  with  the  air 
of  profound  deference  tliat  came  as  naturally  to  him  as 
[  350   ] 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR 

walking,  said  the  few  needful  words  in  the  name  of  the 
Signoria;  then  gave  way  gracefully,  and  let  the  King 
pass  on.  His  presence  of  mind,  which  had  failed  him  in 
the  terrible  crisis  of  the  morning,  had  been  a  ready  in- 
strument this  time.  It  was  an  excellent  livery  servant 
that  never  forsook  him  when  danger  was  not  visible. 
But  when  he  was  complimented  on  his  opportune  service, 
he  laughed  it  off  as  a  thing  of  no  moment,  and  to  those 
who  had  not  witnessed  it,  let  Gaddi  have  the  credit  of 
the  improvised  welcome.  No  wonder  Tito  was  popularri 
the  touchstone  by  which  men  try  us  is  most  often  their  I 
own  vanity.  ^ 

Other  things  besides  the  oratorical  welcome  had 
turned  out  rather  worse  than  had  been  expected.  If 
everything  had  happened  according  to  ingenious  pre- 
conceptions, the  Florentine  procession  of  clergy  and 
laity  would  not  have  found  their  way  choked  up  and 
been  obliged  to  take  a  makeshift  course  through  the 
back  streets,  so  as  to  meet  the  King  at  the  Cathedral 
only.  Also,  if  tlie  young  monarch  under  the  canopy, 
seated  on  his  charger  with  his  lance  u|X)n  his  thigh,  liad 
looked  more  like  a  Charlemagne  and  less  like  a  hastily 
modelled  grotesque,  the  imagination  of  his  admirers 
would  have  been  much  assisted.  It  might  have  been 
wished  that  the  scourge  of  Italian  wickedness  and 
"Champion  of  the  honour  of  women"  had  had  a  less 
miserable  leg,  and  only  the  normal  sum  of  toes;  that 
his  mouth  had  been  of  a  less  reptilian  width  of  slit,  his 
nose  and  head  of  a  less  exorbitant  outline.  But  the  tliin 
leg  rested  on  cloth  of  gold  and  pearls,  and  tlie  face  was 
only  an  interruption  of  a  few  square  inches  in  the  midst 
[  351   ] 


ROMOLA 

of  black  velvet  and  gold,  and  the  blaze  of  rubies,  and 
the  brilliant  tints  of  the  embroidered  and  bepearled 
canopy,  —  "/w  gran  magnificenza." 

And  the  people  had  cried  Francia,  Francial  with  an 
enthusiasm  proportioned  to  the  splendour  of  the  canopy 
which  they  had  torn  to  pieces  as  their  spoil,  according 
to  immemorial  custom;  royal  lips  had  duly  kissed  the 
altar;  and  after  all  mischances  the  royal  person  and 
retinue  were  lodged  in  the  Palace  of  the  Via  Larga,  the 
rest  of  the  nobles  and  gentry  were  dispersed  among  the 
great  houses  of  Florence,  and  the  terrible  soldiery  were 
encamped  in  the  Prato  and  other  open  quarters.  The 
business  of  the  day  was  ended. 

But  the  streets  still  presented  a  surprising  aspect, 
such  as  Florentines  had  not  seen  before  under  the  No- 
vember stars.  Instead  of  a  gloom  unbroken  except  by 
a  lamp  burning  feebly  here  and  there  before  a  saintly 
image  at  the  street-comers,  or  by  a  stream  of  redder 
light  from  an  open  doorway,  there  were  lamps  suspended 
at  the  windows  of  all  houses,  so  that  men  could  walk 
along  no  less  securely  and  commodiously  than  by  day, 
—  "fu  gran  magnificenza" 

Along  those  illuminated  streets  Tito  Melema  was 
walking  at  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  his 
way  homeward.  He  had  been  exerting  himself  through- 
out the  day  under  the  pressure  of  hidden  anxieties,  and 
had  at  last  made  his  escape  unnoticed  from  tlie  midst 
of  after-supper  gaiety.  Once  at  leisure  thoroughly  to 
face  and  consider  his  circumstances,  he  hoped  that  he 
could  so  adjust  himself  to  tliem  and  to  all  probabilities 
as  to  get  rid  of  his  childish  fear.  If  he  had  only  not  been 
[  352  ] 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR 

wanting  in  the  presence  of  mind  necessary  to  recognize 
Baldassarre  under  that  surprise!  —  it  would  have  been 
happier  for  him  on  all  accounts;  for  he  still  winced  J 
under  the  sense  tliat  he  was  deliberately  inflicting  suffer- 
ing on  his  fatlier:  he  would  very  much  have  preferred 
that  Baldassarre  should  be  prosperous  and  happy.  But 
he  had  left  himself  no  second  path  now:  there  could 
be  no  conflict  any  longer:  the  only  thing  he  had  to  do 
was  to  take  care  of  himself. 

^Vhile  these  thoughts  were  in  his  mind  he  was  ad- 
vancing from  the  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  along  the  Via 
dei  Benci,  and  as  he  neared  the  angle  turning  into  the 
Borgo  Santa  Croce  his  ear  was  struck  by  a  music  which 
was  not  that  of  evening  revelry,  but  of  vigorous  labour 
—  the  music  of  the  anvil.  Tito  gave  a  slight  start 
and  quickened  his  pace,  for  the  sounds  had  suggested 
a  welcome  thought.  He  knew  that  they  came  from  the 
workshop  of  Niccolo  Caparra,  famous  resort  of  all 
Florentines  who  cared  for  curious  and  beautiful  iron- 
work. 

"What  makes  the  giant  at  work  so  late?"  thought 
Tito.  "But  so  much  the  better  for  me.  I  can  do  that 
little  bit  of  business  to-night  instead  of  to-morrow 
morning." 

Preoccupied  as  he  was,  he  could  not  help  pausing  a 
moment  in  admiration  as  he  came  in  front  of  the  work- 
shop. The  wide  doorway,  standing  at  the  truncated  angle 
of  a  great  block  or  "isle"  of  houses,  was  surmounted 
by  a  loggia  roofed  with  fluted  tiles,  and  supjwrted  by 
stone  columns  witli  roughly  carved  capitals.  Against 
the  red  light  framed  in  by  tlie  outline  of  the  fluted  tiles 
[    353   ] 


ROMOLA 

and  columns  stood  in  black  relief  the  grand  figure  of 
Niccolo,  with  his  huge  arms  in  rhythmic  rise  and  fall, 
first  hiding  and  then  disclosing  tlie  profile  of  his  firm 
mouth  and  powerful  brow.  Two  slighter  ebony  figures, 
one  at  the  anvil,  the  other  at  the  bellows,  served  to  set 
off  his  superior  massiveness. 

Tito  darkened  the  doorway  with  a  very  different  out- 
line, standing  in  silence,  since  it  was  useless  to  speak 
until  Niccolo  should  deign  to  pause  and  notice  him. 
That  was  not  until  the  smith  had  beaten  the  head  of  an 
axe  to  the  due  sharpness  of  edge  and  dismissed  it  from 
his  anvil.  But  in  the  mean  time  Tito  had  satisfied  him- 
self by  a  glance  round  the  shop  that  the  object  of  which 
he  was  in  search  had  not  disappeared. 

Niccolo  gave  an  unceremonious  but  good-humoured 
nod  as  he  turned  from  the  anvil  and  rested  his  hammer 
on  his  hip. 

"What  is  it,  Messer  Tito?   Business?" 

"Assuredly,  Niccolo;  else  I  should  not  have  ventured 
to  interrupt  you  when  you  are  working  out  of  hours, 
since  I  take  that  as  a  sign  that  your  work  is  pressing." 

"I've  been  at  the  same  work  all  day  —  making  axes 
and  spear-heads.  And  every  fool  that  has  passed  my 
shop  has  put  his  pumpkin-head  in  to  say,  'Niccolo, 
wilt  thou  not  come  and  see  the  King  of  France  and  his 
soldiers?'  and  I've  answered,  'No:  I  don't  want  to 
see  their  faces  —  I  want  to  see  tlieir  backs.'  " 

"Are  you  making  arms  for  tlie  citizens,  then,  Niccolo, 
that  they  may  have  something  better  than  rusty  scythes 
and  spits  in  case  of  an  uproar?" 

"We  shall  see.  Arms  are  good,  and  Florence  is  likely 
[  354  ] 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR 

to  want  them.  The  Frate  tells  us  we  shall  get  Pisa  again, 
and  I  hold  with  tiie  Frate;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
how  the  promise  is  to  be  fulfilled,  if  we  don't  get  plenty 
of  good  weapons  forged  ?  The  Frate  sees  a  long  way  be- 
fore him;  that  I  believe.  But  he  does  n't  see  birds  caught 
with  winking  at  them,  as  some  of  our  people  try  to  make 
out.  He  sees  sense,  and  not  nonsense.  But  you  're  a  bit 
of  a  Medicean,  Messer  Tito  Melema.  Ebbene!  so  I've 
been  myself  in  my  time,  before  the  cask  began  to  run 
sour.   What 's  your  business  ? " 

"Simply  to  know  the  price  of  that  fine  coat  of  mail 
I  saw  hanging  up  here  the  other  day.  I  want  to  buy  it 
for  a  certain  personage  who  needs  a  protection  of  that 
sort  under  his  doublet." 

"  Let  him  come  and  buy  it  himself,  then,"  said  Nic- 
colo,  bluntly.  "I'm  rather  nice  about  what  I  sell,  and 
whom  I  sell  to.   I  like  to  know  who's  my  customer." 

"I  know  your  scruples,  Niccolo.  But  that  is  only 
defensive  armour:  it  can  hurt  nobody." 

"True:  but  it  may  make  the  man  who  wears  it  feel 
himself  all  the  safer  if  he  should  want  to  hurt  somebody. 
No,  no;  it's  not  my  own  work;  but  it's  fine  work  of 
Maso  of  Brescia:  I  should  be  loth  for  it  to  cover  the 
heart  of  a  scoundrel.   I  must  know  who  is  to  wear  it." 

"Well,  then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Niccolo  mio,  I  want 
it  myself,"  said  Tito,  knowing  it  was  useless  to  try  per- 
suasion. "The  fact  is,  I  am  likely  to  have  a  journey  to 
take  — and  you  know  what  journeying  is  in  these  times. 
You  don't  suspect  mc  of  treason  against  the  Republic  ?" 

"No,  I  know  no  harm  of  you,"  said  Niccolo,  in  his 
blunt  way  again.  "But  have  you  the  money  to  pay  for 
[   355  ] 


ROMOLA 

ite  coat  ?  For  you  've  passed  my  shop  often  enough  to 
know  my  sign :  you  've  seen  the  burning  account-books. 
I  trust  nobody.  The  price  is  twenty  florins,  and  that 's 
because  it's  second-hand.  You're  not  likely  to  have  so 
much  money  with  you.   Let  it  be  till  to-morrow." 

"I  happen  to  have  the  money,"  said  Tito,  who  had 
been  winning  at  play  the  day  before,  and  had  not  emp- 
tied his  purse.   "I'll  carry  the  armour  home  with  me." 

Niccolo  reached  down  the  finely  wrought  coat,  which 
fell  together  into  little  more  than  two  handfuls. 

"There,  then,"  he  said,  when  the  florins  had  been 
told  down  on  his  palm.  "Take  the  coat.  It's  made 
to  cheat  sword,  or  poniard,  or  arrow.  But,  for  my  part, 
I  would  never  put  such  a  thing  on.  It's  like  carrying 
fear  about  with  one." 

Niccolo's  words  had  an  unpleasant  intensity  of  mean" 
ins  for  Tito.   But  he  smiled  and  said,  — 

"Ah,  Niccolo,  we  scholars  are  all  cowards.  Handling 
the  pen  does  n't  thicken  the  arm  as  your  hammer-wield- 
ing does.   Addio!" 

He  folded  the  armour  under  his  mantle,  and  hastened 
across  the  Ponte  Rubaconte. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

WHILE  Tito  was  hastening  across  the  bridge  with 
the  new-bought  armour  under  his  mantle,  Rom- 
ola  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  old  library,  thinking 
of  him  and  longing  for  his  return. 

It  was  but  a  few  fair  faces  Uiat  had  not  looked  forth 
from  windows  that  day  to  see  the  entrance  of  the  French 
King  and  his  nobles.  One  of  the  few  was  Romola's. 
She  had  been  present  at  no  festivities  since  her  father 
had  died  —  died  quite  suddenly  in  his  chair,  three 
months  before. 

"Is  not  Tito  coming  to  write?"  he  had  said,  when 
the  bell  had  long  ago  sounded  the  usual  hour  in  the 
evening.  He  had  not  asked  before,  from  dread  of  a 
negative;  but  Romola  had  seen  by  his  listening  face 
and  restless  movements  that  nothing  else  was  in  his 
mind. 

"No,  father,  he  had  to  go  to  a  supper  at  the  cardi- 
nal's: you  know  he  is  wanted  so  much  by  every  one," 
she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  excuse. 

"Ah!  then  perhaps  he  will  bring  some  positive  word 
about  the  library;  the  cardinal  promised  last  week," 
said  Bardo,  apparently  pacified  by  this  hope. 

He  was  silent  a  little  while;  tlien,  suddenly  flushing, 
he  said,  — 

"I  must  go  on  without  him,  Romola.    Get  the  pen 
[   357   ] 


ROMOLA 

He  has  brought  me  no  new  text  to  comment  on;  but 
I  must  say  what  I  want  to  say  about  the  New  Platonists. 
I  shall  die  and  nothing  will  have  been  done.  ISIake 
haste,  my  Romola." 

"I  am  ready,  father,"  she  said,  the  next  minute, 
holding  the  pen  in  her  hand. 

But  there  was  silence.  Romola  took  no  note  of  this 
for  a  little  while,  accustomed  to  pauses  in  dictation ;  and 
when  at  last  she  looked  round  inquiringly,  there  was 
no  change  of  attitude. 

"I  am  quite  ready,  father!  " 

Still  Bardo  was  silent,  and  his  silence  was  never  again 
broken. 

Romola  looked  back  on  that  hour  with  some  indigna- 
tion against  herself,  because  even  with  the  first  out- 
burst of  her  sorrow  tliere  had  mingled  the  irrepressible 
thought,  "Perhaps  my  life  with  Tito  will  be  more  per- 
fect now." 

For  the  dream  of  a  triple  life  with  an  undivided 
sum  of  happiness  had  not  been  quite  fulfilled.  The 
rainbow-tinted  shower  of  sweets,  to  have  been  per- 
fectly typical,  should  have  had  some  in^^sible  seeds 
of  bitterness  mingled  with  them;  the  crowned  Ariadne, 
under  the  snowing  roses,  had  felt  more  and  more  the 
presence  of  unexpected  thorns.  It  was  not  Tito's  fault, 
Romola  had  continually  assured  herself.  He  was  still 
all  gentleness  to  her  and  to  her  fatlier  also.  But  it  was 
in  the  nature  of  things  —  she  saw  it  clearly  now  —  it 
was  in  tlic  nature  of  things  that  no  one  but  herself 
could  go  on  montli  after  niontli,  and  year  after  year, 
fulfilling  patiently  all  her  father's  monotonous  exacting 
[  358  ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

demands.  Even  she,  whose  sympathy  with  her  father 
had  made  all  the  passion  and  religion  of  her  young 
years,  had  not  always  been  patient,  had  been  inwardly 
very  rebellious.  It  was  true  that  before  their  marriage, 
and  even  for  some  time  after,  Tito  had  seemed  more 
unwearying  than  herself;  but  then,  of  course,  the 
effort  had  the  ease  of  novelty.  We  assume  a  load  with 
confident  readiness,  and  up  to  a  certain  point  tlie 
growing  irksomeness  of  pressure  is  tolerable;  but  at 
last  the  desire  for  relief  can  no  longer  be  resisted. 
Romola  said  to  herself  that  she  had  been  very  foolish 
and  ignorant  in  her  girlish  time:  she  was  wiser  now, 
and  would  make  no  unfair  demands  on  tlie  man  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  best  woman's  love  and  wor- 
ship. The  breath  of  sadness  that  still  cleaved  to  her 
lot  while  she  saw  her  father  month  after  month  sink 
from  elation  into  new  disappointment  as  Tito  gave  him 
less  and  less  of  his  time,  and  made  bland  excuses  for  not 
continuing  his  own  share  of  tlie  joint  work  —  that  sad- 
ness was  no  fault  of  Tito's,  she  said,  but  rather  of  their 
inevitable  destiny.  If  he  stayed  less  and  less  with  her, 
why,  tliat  was  because  they  could  hardly  ever  be  alone. 
His  caresses  were  no  less  tender:  if  she  pleaded  timidly 
on  any  one  evening  that  he  should  stay  with  her  father 
instead  of  going  to  another  engagement  which  was  not 
peremptory,  he  excused  himself  with  such  charming 
gaiety,  he  seemed  to  linger  about  her  with  such  fond 
playfulness  before  he  could  quit  her,  that  she  could 
only  feel  a  little  heartache  in  the  midst  of  her  love,  and 
then  go  to  her  father  and  try  to  soften  his  vexation  and 
disappointment.  But  all  the  while  inwardly  her  imag' 
[  359   ] 


ROMOLA 

inatioQ  was  busy  trying  to  see  how  Tito  could  be  as 
good  as  she  had  thought  he  was,  and  yet  find  it  impos- 
sible to  sacrifice  those  pleasures  of  society  which  were 
necessarily  more  vivid  to  a  bright  creature  like  him 
than  to  the  common  run  of  men.  She  herself  would 
have  liked  more  gaiety,  more  admiration:  it  was  true, 
she  gave  it  up  willingly  for  her  father's  sake  —  she 
would  have  given  up  much  more  than  that  for  the  sake 
even  of  a  slight  wish  on  Tito's  part.  It  was  clear  that 
their  natures  differed  widely;  but  perhaps  it  was  no 
more  than  the  inherent  difference  between  man  and 
woman,  that  made  her  affections  more  absorbing.  If 
there  were  any  other  difference  she  tried  to  persuade 
herself  that  the  inferiority  was  on  her  side.  Tito  was 
really  kinder  than  she  was,  better  tempered,  less  proud 
and  resentful;  he  had  no  angry  retorts,  he  met  all  com- 
plaints  with   perfect   sweetness;   he   only  escaped   as 

^    quietly  as  he  could  from  things  that  were  unpleasant. 

r"  It  belongs  to  every  large  nature,  when  it  is  not  under 
the  immediate  power  of  some  strong  unquestioning 
emotion,  to  suspect  itself,  and  doubt  the  trutli  of  its  own 
impressions,  conscious  of  possibilities  beyond  its  own 
horizon.  And  Romola  was  urged  to  doubt  herself  the 
more  by  the  necessity  of  interpreting  her  disappoint- 
ment in  her  life  with  Tito  so  as  to  satisfy  at  once  her 
love  and  her  pride.    Disappointment  ?   Yes,  there  was 

I  no  other  milder  word  that  would  tell  the  truth.  Perhaps 
all  women  had  to  suffer  tlie  disappointment  of  ignorant 
hopes,  if  she  only  knew  their  experience.  Still,  tliere 
had  been  something  peculiar  in  her  lot:  her  relation  to 
her  father  had  claimed  unusual  sacrifices  from  her  hus- 
[   360   ] 


THE  YOUNG   WIFE 

band.  Tito  had  once  tliought  tliat  his  love  would  make 
tliose  sacrifices  easy;  his  love  had  not  been  great  enough 
for  that.  She  was  not  justified  in  resenting  a  self- 
delusion.  No!  resentment  must  not  rise:  all  endurance 
seemed  easy  to  Romola  rather  tlian  a  state  of  mind  in 
which  she  would  admit  to  herself  tliat  Tito  acted  un- 
worthily. If  she  had  felt  a  new  heartache  in  tlie  solitary 
hours  with  her  father  tlirough  the  last  months  of  his 
life,  it  had  been  by  no  inexcusable  fault  of  her  hus- 
band's; and  now  —  it  was  a  hojMj  that  would  make  its 
presence  felt  even  in  the  first  moments  when  her  father's 
place  was  empty  —  there  was  no  longer  any  importunate 
claim  to  divide  her  from  Tito;  their  young  lives  would 
flow  in  one  current,  and  their  true  marriage  would 
begin. 

But  the  sense  of  something  like  guilt  towards  her  ■ 
father  in  a  hope  that  grew  out  of  his  death  gave  all 
the  more  force  to  tlie  anxiety  with  which  she  dwelt 
on  tlie  means  of  fulfilling  his  supreme  wish.  That 
piety  towards  his  memory  was  all  the  atonement  she 
could  make  now  for  a  thought  that  seemed  akin  to 
joy  at  his  loss.  The  laborious  simple  life,  pure  from 
vulgar  corrupting  ambitions,  embittered  by  tlie  frus- 
tration of  the  dearest  hopes,  imprisoned  at  last  in  total 
darkness  —  a  long  seed-time  witliout  a  harvest  —  was 
at  an  end  now,  and  all  that  remained  of  it  besides  the 
tablet  in  Santa  Croce  and  the  unfinished  commentary 
on  Tito's  text,  was  the  collection  of  manuscripts  and 
antiquities,  the  fruit  of  half  a  century's  toil  and  frugality. 
The  fulfilment  of  her  father's  lifelong  anil)iti()n  about  I 
this  library  was  a  sacramental  obligation  for  Romola. 
[  3C1   ] 


ROMOLA 

The  precious  relic  was  safe  from  creditors,  for  when 
the  deficit  towards  their  payment  had  been  ascertained, 
Bernardo  del  Nero,  though  he  was  far  from  being 
among  the  wealthiest  Florentines,  had  advanced  the 
necessary  sum  of  about  a  thousand  florins  —  a  large 
sum  in  those  days — accepting  a  lien  on  the  collection 
as  a  security. 

"The  State  will  repay  me,"  he  had  said  to  Romola, 
making  light  of  the  service,  which  had  really  cost 
him  some  inconvenience.  "If  the  cardinal  finds  a 
building,  as  he  seems  to  say  he  will,  our  Signoria  may 
consent  to  do  the  rest.  I  have  no  children,  I  can  afford 
the  risk." 

But  within  the  last  ten  days  all  hopes  in  the  Medici 
had  come  to  an  end:  and  the  famous  Medicean  col- 
lections in  the  Via  Larga  were  themselves  in  danger 
of  dispersion.  French  agents  had  already  begun  to 
see  that  such  very  fine  antique  gems  as  Lorenzo  had 
collected  belonged  by  right  to  the  first  nation  in  Europe; 
and  the  Florentine  State,  which  had  got  possession  of 
the  Medicean  library,  was  likely  to  be  glad  of  a  customer 
for  it.  With  a  war  to  recover  Pisa  hanging  over  it,  and 
with  the  certainty  of  having  to  pay  large  subsidies  to 
the  French  King,  the  State  was  likely  to  prefer  money 
to  manuscripts. 

To  Romola  tliese  grave  political  changes  had  gatliered 
tlieir  chief  interest  from  tlieir  bearing  on  the  fulfilment 
of  her  father's  wish.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  learned 
seclusion  from  the  interests  of  actual  life,  and  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  of  heroic  deeds  and  great  princi- 
ples as  something  antithetic  to  the  vulgar  present,  of  the 
[  362  ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

Pnyx  and  the  Forum  as  something  more  worthy  of 
attention  than  tlie  councils  of  living  Florentine  men. 
And  now  the  expulsion  of  the  Medici  meant  little  more 
for  her  than  the  extinction  of  her  best  hope  about  her 
father's  library.  The  times,  she  knew,  were  unpleasant 
for  friends  of  the  Medici,  like  her  godfather  and  Tito: 
superstitious  shopkeepers  and  the  stupid  rabble  were 
full  of  suspicions;  but  her  new  keen  interest  in  public 
events,  in  the  outbreak  of  war,  in  tlie  issue  of  the  French 
King's  visit,  in  the  changes  that  were  likely  to  happen 
in  the  State,  was  kindled  solely  by  the  sense  of  love  and 
duty  to  her  father's  memory.  All  Romola's  ardour 
nad  been  concentrated  in  her  affections.  Her  share  in 
her  father's  learned  pursuits  had  been  for  her  little 
more  than  a  toil  which  was  borne  for  his  sake;  and  Tito's 
airy  brilliant  faculty  had  no  attraction  for  her  that  was 
not  merged  in  the  deeper  sympathies  that  belong  to 
yoimg  love  and  trust.  Romola  had  had  contact  with 
no  mind  that  could  stir  the  larger  possibilities  of  her 
nature;  they  lay  folded  and  crushed  like  embrj'onic 
wings,  making  no  element  in  her  consciousness  beyond 
an  occasional  vague  uneasiness. 

But  this  new  personal  interest  of  hers  in  public  affairs 
had  made  her  care  at  last  to  understand  precisely  what 
influence  Fra  Girolamo's  preaching  was  likely  to  have 
on  the  turn  of  events.  Changes  in  the  form  of  the  State 
were  talked  of,  and  all  she  could  learn  from  Tito,  whose 
secretaryship  and  serviceable  talents  carried  him  into 
the  heart  of  public  business,  made  her  only  the  more 
eager  to  fill  out  her  lonely  day  by  going  to  hear  for 
herself  what  it  was  that  was  just  now  leading  all  Florence 
[  363  ] 


ROMOLA 

by  the  ears.  This  morning,  for  the  first  time,  she  had 
been  to  hear  one  of  the  Advent  sermons  in  the  Duomo. 
When  Tito  had  left  her,  she  had  formed  a  sudden 
resolution,  and  after  visiting  the  spot  where  her  father 
was  buried  in  Santa  Croce,  had  walked  on  to  the 
Duomo.  The  memory  of  tliat  last  scene  with  Dino  was 
still  vivid  within  her  whenever  she  recalled  it,  but  it 
had  receded  behind  the  experience  and  anxieties  of 
her  married  life.  The  new  sensibilities  and  questions 
which  it  had  half-awakened  in  her  were  quieted  again 
by  that  subjection  to  her  husband's  mind  which  is  felt 
by  every  wife  who  loves  her  husband  with  passionate 
devotedness  and  full  reliance.  She  remembered  the 
effect  of  Fra  Girolamo's  voice  and  presence  on  her  as 
a  ground  for  expecting  that  his  sermon  might  move 
her  in  spite  of  his  being  a  narrow-minded  monk.  But 
the  sermon  did  no  more  tlian  slightly  deepen  her 
previous  impression,  that  this  fanatical  preacher  of 
tribulations  was  after  all  a  man  towards  whom  it  might 
be  possible  for  her  to  feel  personal  regard  and  reverence. 
The  denunciations  and  exhortations  simply  arrested 
her  attention.  She  felt  no  terror,  no  pangs  of  con- 
science: it  was  the  roll  of  distant  thunder,  tliat  seemed 
grand,  but  could  not  shake  her.  But  when  she  heard 
Savonarola  invoke  martyrdom,  she  sobbed  with  the 
rest:  she  felt  herself  penetrated  with  a  new  sensation 
—  a  strange  sympathy  witli  something  apart  from  all  the 
definable  ihterests  of  her  life.  It  was  not  altogether 
unlike  the  thrill  which  had  accompanied  certain  rare 
heroic  touches  in  history  and  poetry;  but  tlie  resemb- 
lance was  as  that  between  the  memory  of  music,  and 
[  364  ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

the  sense  of  being  possessed  by  actual  vibrating  har- 
monies. 

But  tliat  transient  emotion,  strong  as  it  was,  seemeJ 
to  lie  quite  outside  the  inner  chamber  and  sanctuary 
of  her  life.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Fra  Girolamo 
now;  she  was  listening  anxiously  for  the  step  of  her 
husband.  During  these  three  months  of  their  double 
solitude  she  had  thought  of  each  day  as  an  epoch  in 
which  their  union  might  begin  to  be  more  perfect. 
She  was  conscious  of  being  sometimes  a  little  too  sad 
or  too  urgent  about  what  concerned  her  father's  mem- 
ory—  a  little  too  critical  or  coldly  silent  when  Tito 
narrated  the  things  that  were  said  and  done  in  the 
world  he  frequented  — a  little  too  hasty  in  suggesting 
that  by  living  quite  simply  as  her  father  had  done, 
they  might  become  rich  enough  to  pay  Bernardo  del 
Nero,  and  reduce  the  difficulties  about  the  library. 
It  was  not  possible  that  Tito  could  feel  so  strongly 
on  this  last  point  as  she  did,  and  it  was  asking  a  great 
deal  from  him  to  give  up  luxuries  for  which  he  really 
lalx)ured.  The  next  time  Tito  came  home  she  would 
be  careful  to  suppress  all  those  promptings  that  seemed 
to  isolate  her  from  him.  Romola  was  labouring,  as 
a  loving  woman  must,  to  subdue  her  nature  to  her  hus-  \/y  ' 
band's.  The  great  need  of  her  heart  compelled  her  to  ^^^rC/^  -A 
strangle,  with  despefate  resolution,  every  rising  impulse    K/^^    y  ) 


of  suspicion,  pride,  and  resentment;  she  felt  equal  to 
any  self-infliction   that  would   save  her   fn^m, ceasing  A    ^-. 
to  love.    That  would  have  been  like  the  hideous  night-    S. 
mare  in  which  the  world  had  seemed  to  break  away  V    *Y^ 
all   round  her,   and   leave  her  feet  overhanging  the     "^ 
[  365   ] 


ROMOLA 

darkness.    Romola  had  never  distinctly  imagined  such 
a  future  for  herself;  she  was  only  beginning  to  feel  the 
presence  of  efiFort  in  that  clinging  trust  which  had  once 
I  been  mere  repose. 

She  waited   and   listened   long,   for  Tito  had   not 
come   straight  home  after  leaving  Niccolo   Caparra, 
and  it  was  more  than  two  hours  after  the  time  when 
he  was  crossing  the  Ponte  Rubaconte  that  Romola 
heard  the  great  door  of  the  court  turning  on  its  hinges, 
and  hastened  to  the  head  of  the  stone  steps.  There  was 
'    a  lamp  hanging  over  the  stairs,  and  they  could  see 
each  other  distinctly  as  he  ascended.    The  eighteen 
months   had   produced   a   more   definable   change   in 
Romola's  face  than  in  Tito's;  the  expression  was  more 
j^    subdued,  less  cold,  and  more  beseeching,  and,  as  the 
^  pink  flush  overspread  her  face  now,  in  her  joy  that 

the  long  waiting  was  at  an  end,  she  was  much  lovelier 
than  on  the  day  when  Tito  had  first  seen  her.  On  that 
day,  any  onlooker  would  have  said  tliat  Romola's 
nature  was  made  to  command,  and  Tito's  to  bend; 
yet  now  Romola's  mouth  was  quivering  a  little,  and 
there  was  some  timidity  in  her  glance. 

He  made  an  effort  to  smile,  as  she  said,  — 

"My  Tito,  you  are  tired;  it  has  been  a  fatiguing 
day:  is  it  not  true?" 

Maso  was  there,  and  no  more  was  said  until  they 
had  crossed  the  antechamber  and  closed  the  door  of 
the  library  behind  tliem.  The  wood  was  burning 
brightly  on  the  great  dogs;  that  was  one  welcome  for 
Tito,  late  as  he  was,  and  Romola's  gentle  voice  was 
another. 

[  366  ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

He  just  turned  and  kissed  her  when  she  took  off 
his  mantle;  then  he  went  towards  a  high-backed  chair 
placed  for  him  near  tlie  fire,  threw  himself  into  it, 
and  flung  away  his  cap,  saying,  not  peevishly,  but  in 
a  fatigued  tone  of  remonstrance,  as  he  gave  a  slight 
shudder,  — 

"Romola,  I  wish  you  would  give  up  sitting  in  this 
librar}'.  Surely  our  own  rooms  are  pleasanter  in  tliis 
chill  weather." 

Romola  felt  hurt.  She  had  never  seen  Tito  so  in- 
different in  his  manner;  he  was  usually  full  of  lively 
solicitous  attention.  And  she  had  thought  so  much  of 
his  return  to  her  after  the  long  day's  absence.  He  must 
be  very  weary. 

"I  wonder  you  have  forgotten,  Tito,"  she  answered, 
looking  at  him  anxiously,  as  if  she  wanted  to  read 
an  excuse  for  him  in  the  signs  of  bodily  fatigue.  "You 
know  I  am  making  the  catalogue  on  the  new  plan  that 
my  father  wished  for;  you  have  not  time  to  help  me,  so 
I  must  work  at  it  closely." 

Tito,  instead  of  meeting  Romola's  glance,  closed 
his  eyes  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  his  face  and  hair. 
|[^e  felt  he  was  behaving  unlike  himself,  but  he  would 
make  amends  to-morrow.  The  terrible  resurrection 
of  secret  fears,  which,  if  Romola  had  known  them, 
would  have  alienated  her  from  him  for  ever,  caused  him 
to  feel  an  alienation  already  begun  between  them  — 
caused  him  to  feel  a  certain  repulsion  towards  a  woman 
from  whose  mind  he  was  in  danger.  The  feeling  had 
taken  hold  of  him  unawares,  and  he  was  vexed  with 
himself  for  behaving  in  this  new  cold  way  to  her.  He 
[   367   ] 


ROMOLA 

could  not  suddenly  command  any  affectionate  looks 
or  words;  he  could  only  exert  himself  to  say  what  might 
I    serve  as  an  excuse. 

"I  am  not  well,  Romola;  you  must  not  be  surprised 
if  I  am  peevish." 

"Ah,  you  have  had  so  much  to  tire  you  to-day,"  said 
Romola,  kneeling  down  close  to  him,  and  laying  her  arm 
on  his  chest  while  she  put  his  hair  back  caressingly. 

Suddenly  she  drew  her  arm  away  with  a  start,  and 
a  gaze  of  alarmed  inquiry. 

"What  have  you  got  under  your  tunic,  Tito  ?  Some- 
thing as  hard  as  iron." 

"It  is  iron  —  it  is  chain-armour,"  he  said  at  once. 
He  was  prepared  for  the  surprise  and  the  question, 
and  he  spoke  quietly,  as  of  something  that  he  was  not 
hurried  to  explain. 

"  There  was  some  unexpected  danger  to-day,  then  ?" 
said  Romola,  in  a  tone  of  conjecture.  "You  had  it  lent 
to  you  for  tlie  procession  ?" 

"No;  it  is  my  own.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  wear  it 
constantly,  for  some  time." 

"  What  is  it  that  threatens  you,  my  Tito  ? "  said 
Romola,  looking  terrified,  and  clinging  to  him  again. 

"Every  one  is  threatened  in  these  times,  who  is  not 
a  rabid  enemy  of  the  Medici.  Don't  look  distressed, 
my  Romola  —  this  armour  will  make  me  safe  against 
covert  attacks." 

Tito  put  his  hand  on  her  neck  and  smiled.  This 
little  dialogue  about  the  armour  had  broken  through 
the  new  crust,  and  made  a  channel  for  the  sweet  habit 
of  kindness. 

[  368  ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

"But  my  godfatlier,  tlien,"  said  Romoia;  "is  not 
he,  too,  in  danger  ?  And  he  takes  no  precautions  — 
ought  he  not  ?  since  he  must  surely  be  in  more  danger 
tlian  you,  who  have  so  httle  influence  compared  with 
him." 

"It  is  just  because  I  am  less  important  that  I  am 
in  more  danger,"  said  Tito,  readily.  "I  am  suspected 
constantly  of  being  an  envoy.  And  men  like  Messer 
Bernardo  are  protected  by  their  position  and  their 
extensive  family  connections,  which  spread  among 
all  parties,  while  I  am  a  Greek  that  nobody  would 
avenge." 

"But,  Tito,  is  it  a  fear  of  some  particular  person, 
or  only  a  vague  sense  of  danger,  that  has  made  you 
think  of  wearing  this?"  Romoia  was  unable  to  repel 
the  idea  of  a  degrading  fear  in  Tito,  which  mingled 
itself  with  her  anxiety. 

"I  have  had  special  threats,"  said  Tito,  "but  I 
must  beg  you  to  be  silent  on  the  subject,  my  Romoia. 
I  shall  consider  that  you  have  broken  my  confidence, 
if  you  mention  it  to  your  godfatlier." 

"Assuredly  I  will  not  mention  it,"  said  Romoia, 
blushing,  "if  you  wish  it  to  be  a  secret.  But,  dearest 
Tito,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in  a  tone 
of  loving  anxiety,  "it  will  make  you  very  wretched." 

"What  will  make  me  wretched?"  he  said,  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible  movement  across  his  face,  as  from 
some  darting  sensation. 

"This  fear  —  this  heavy  armour.  I  can't  help  shud- 
dering as  I  feel  it  under  my  arm.  I  could  fancy  it  a  story 
of    enchantment  —  that    some    malignant    fiend    had     , 

[  369   ]  .     ,    '      / 


ROMOLA 

changed  your  sensitive  human  skin  into  a  hard  shell. 
It  seems  so  unlike  my  bright,  light-hearted  Tito!" 

"Then  you  would  rather  have  your  husband  ex- 
posed to  danger,  when  he  leaves  you?"  said  Tito, 
smiling.  *  K  you  don't  mind  my  being  poniarded  or 
shot,  why  need  I  mind  ?  I  will  give  up  the  armour 
—  shall  I?" 

"No,  Tito,  no.  I  am  fanciful.  Do  not  heed  what 
I  have  said.  But  such  crimes  are  surely  not  common 
in  Florence  ?  I  have  always  heard  my  father  and  god- 
father say  so.  Have  they  become  frequent  lately?" 

"It  is  not  unlikely  they  will  become  frequent,  with 
the  bitter  hatreds  that  are  being  bred  continually." 

Romola  was  silent  a  few  moments.  She  shrank  from 
insisting  further  on  the  subject  of  the  armour.  She  tried 
to  shake  it  off. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened  to-day,"  she  said,  in 
a  cheerful  tone.   "Has  all  gone  off  well?" 

"Excellently  well.  First  of  all,  the  rain  came  and  put 
an  end  to  Luca  Corsini's  oration,  which  nobody  wanted 
to  hear,  and  a  ready-tongued  personage  —  some  say  it 
was  Gaddi,  some  say  it  was  Melema,  but  really  it  was 
done  so  quickly  no  one  knows  who  it  was  —  had  tlie 
honour  of  giving  the  Cristianissimo  the  briefest  possible 
welcome  in  bad  French." 

"Tito,  it  was  you,  I  know,"  said  Romola,  smiling 
brightly,  and  kissing  him.  "How  is  it  you  never  care 
about  claiming  anything?  And  after  that?" 

"Oh!  after  tliat,  there  was  a  shower  of  armour  and 
jewels  and  trappings,  such  as  you  saw  at  the  last  Floren- 
tine giostra,  only  a  great  deal  more  of  them.  There  was 
[   370   ] 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

strutting  and  prancing  and  confusion  and  scrambling, 
and  the  people  shouted,  and  the  Cristianissimo  smiled 
from  ear  to  ear.  And  after  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
flattery,  and  eating,  and  play.  I  was  at  Tornabuoni's. 
I  will  tell  you  about  it  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  dearest,  never  mind  now.  But  is  there  any 
more  hope  that  things  will  end  peaceably  for  Florence, 
that  the  Republic  will  not  get  into  fresh  troubles?" 

Tito  gave  a  shrug.  "Florence  will  have  no  peace  but 
what  it  pays  well  for;  that  is  clear." 

Romola's  face  saddened,  but  she  checked  herself,  and 
said,  cheerfully,  "You  would  not  guess  where  I  went 
to-day,  Tito.  I  went  to  the  Duomo,  to  hear  Fra  Giro- 
lamo." 

Tito  looked  startled;  he  had  immediately  thought  of 
Baldassarre's  entrance  into  the  Duomo;  but  Romola 
gave  his  look  another  meaning. 

"You  are  surprised,  are  you  not?  It  was  a  sudden 
thought.  I  want  to  know  all  about  the  public  affairs 
now,  and  I  determined  to  hear  for  myself  what  the 
Frate  promised  the  people  about  this  French  invasion." 

"Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of  the  prophet?" 

"He  certainly  has  a  very  mysterious  power,  that  man. 
A  great  deal  of  his  sermon  was  what  I  expected;  but 
once  I  was  stran({rly  moved  —  I  sobbed  with  the  rest." 

"Take  care,  Romola,"  said  Tito,  playfully,  feeling 
relieved  tliat  she  had  said  noUiing  about  Baldassarre; 
"you  have  a  touch  of  fanaticism  in  you.  I  shall  have 
you  seeing  visions,  like  your  brother." 

"No;  it  was  the  same  with  every  one  else.  He  carried 
them  all  with  him;  unless  it  were  that  gross  Dolfo  Spini, 
[   371   ] 


V 


ROMOLA 

whom  I  saw  there  making  grimaces.  There  was  even 
a  wretched -looking  man,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck  — 
an  escaped  prisoner,  I  should  think,  who  had  run  in  for 
shelter  —  a  very  wild-eyed  old  man :  I  saw  him  with 
great  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  as  he  looked  and 
Ifctened  quite  eagerly." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  Tito  spoke. 

"I  saw  the  man,"  he  said  —  "the  prisoner.  I  was 
outside  the  Duomo  with  Lorenzo  Tomabuoni  when  he 
ran  in.  He  had  escaped  from  a  French  soldier.  Did  you 
see  him  when  you  came  out?" 

"No,  he  went  out  with  our  good  old  Piero  di  Cosimo. 
I  saw  Piero  come  in  and  cut  off  his  rope,  and  take  him 
out  of  the  church.  But  you  want  rest,  Tito  ?  You  feel 
ill?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tito,  rising.  The  horrible  sense  that  he 
must  live  in  continual  dread  of  what  Baldassarre  had 
said  or  done  pressed  upon  him  like  a  cold  weight. 


CHAPTER  XXVni 
THE  PAINTED  RECORD 

FOUR  days  later,  Romola  was  on  her  way  to  the 
house  of  Piero  di  Cosimo,  in  the  Via  Gualfonda. 
Some  cf  the  streets  through  which  she  had  to  pass  were 
lined  with  Frenchmen  who  were  gazirfg  at  Florence,  and 
with  Florentines  who  were  gazing  at  the  French,  and  the 
gaze  was  not  on  either  side  entirely  friendly  and  admir- 
ing. The  first  nation  in  Europe,  of  necessity  finding 
itself,  when  out  of  its  own  countrj^  in  the  presence  of 
general  inferiority,  naturally  assumed  an  air  of  conscious 
pre-eminence;  and  the  Florentines,  who  had  taken  such 
pains  to  play  the  host  amiably,  were  getting  into  the 
worst  humour  with  their  too  superior  guests. 

For  after  the  first  smiling  compliments  and  festivities 
were  over  —  after  wondrous  Mysteries  with  unrivalled 
machinery  of  floating  clouds  and  angels  had  been  pre- 
sented in  churches — after  tlie  royal  guest  had  honoured 
Florentine  dames  with  much  of  his  Most  Cliristian 
ogling  at  balls  and  suppers,  and  business  had  begun  to 
be  talked  of — it  appeared  tliat  the  new  Charlemagne  re- 
garded Florence  as  a  conquered  city,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
entered  it  with  his  lance  in  rest,  talked  of  leaving  his 
viceroy  behind  him,  and  had  tlioughts  of  bringing  back 
the  Medici.  Singular  logic  this  appeared  to  be  on  tlie 
part  of  an  elect  instrument  of  God!  since  \he  policy  of 
Piero  de'  Medici,  disowned  by  the  people,  had  been  tlie 
[  373  ]    . 


ROMOLA 

only  offence  of  Florence  against  the  majesty  of  France, 
And  Florence  was  determined  not  to  submit.  The  de- 
termination was  being  expressed  very  strongly  in  con- 
sultations of  citizens  inside  the  Old  Palace,  and  it  was 
beginning  to  show  itself  on  the  broad  flags  of  the  streets 
and  piazzas  wherever  there  was  an  opportunity  of  flout- 
ing an  insolent  Frenchman.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  streets  were  not  altogether  a  pleasant  promenade  for 
well-bom  women;  but  Romola,  shrouded  in  her  black 
veil  and  mantle,  and  with  old  Maso  by  her  side,  felt 
secure  enough  from  impertinent  observation. 

And  she  was  impatient  to  visit  Piero  di  Cosimo.  A 
copy  of  her  father's  portrait  as  (Edipus,  which  he  had 
long  ago  undertaken  to  make  for  her,  was  not  yet  fin- 
ished ;  and  Piero  was  so  uncertain  in  his  work  —  some- 
times, when  the  demand  was  not  peremptory,  laying  aside 
a  picture  for  months;  sometimes  thrusting  it  into  a  cor- 
ner or  coffer,  where  it  was  likely  to  be  utterly  forgotten 
—  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to  watch  over  his  pro- 
gress. She  was  a  favourite  with  the  painter,  and  he  was 
inclined  to  fulfil  any  wish  of  hers,  but  no  general  inclina- 
tion could  be  trusted  as  a  safeguard  against  his  sud- 
den whims.  He  had  told  her  the  week  before  that  the 
picture  would  perhaps  be  finished  by  this  time;  and 
Romola  was  nervously  anxious  to  have  in  her  possession 
a  copy  of  the  only  portrait  existing  of  her  father  in  the 
days  of  his  blindness,  lest  his  image  should  grow  dim  in 
her  mind.  The  sense  of  defect  in  her  devotedness  to  him 
made  her  cling  witli  all  tlie  force  of  compunction  as  well 
as  affection  to  the  duties  of  memory.  Love  does  not  aim 
/simply  at  the  conscious  good  of  the  beloved  object :  it  is 

[   374   ] 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD 

not  satisfied  without  perfect  loyalty  of  heart;  it  aims  at 
its  own  completeness. 

Romola,  by  special  favour,  was  allowed  to  intrude 
upon  the  painter  without  previous  notice.  She  lifted  the 
iron  slide  and  called  Picro  in  a  flute-like  tone,  as  the 
little  maiden  with  the  eggs  had  done  in  Tito's  presence. 
Piero  was  quick  in  answering,  but  when  he  opened  the 
door  he  accounted  for  his  quickness  in  a  manner  that 
was  not  complimentary. 

"Ah,  Madonna  Romola,  is  it  you  ?  I  thought  my 
eggs  were  come;  I  wanted  them." 

"I  have  brought  you  something  better  than  hard  eggs, 
Piero.  Maso  has  got  a  little  basket  full  of  cakes  and 
confetti  for  you,"  said  Romola,  smiling,  as  she  put  back 
her  veil.  She  took  the  basket  from  Maso,  and,  stepping 
into  the  house,  said,  — 

"I  know  you  like  these  things  when  you  can  have 
them  without  trouble.   Confess  you  do." 

"Yes,  when  they  come  to  me  as  easily  as  the  light 
does,"  said  Piero,  folding  his  arms  and  looking  down  at 
the  sweetmeats  as  Romola  uncovered  them  and  glanced 
at  him  archly.  "And  they  are  come  along  with  the  light 
now,"  he  added,  lifting  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  hair  with 
a  painter's  admiration,  as  her  hood,  dragged  by  the 
weight  of  her  veil,  fell  backward. 

"But  I  know  what  the  sweetmeats  are  for,"  he  went 
on;  "they  are  to  stop  my  mouth  while  you  scold  me. 
"Well,  go  on  into  the  next  room,  and  you  will  see  I've 
done  something  to  the  picture  since  you  saw  it,  though 
it's  not  finished  yet.  But  I  did  n't  promise,  you  know: 
I  take  care  not  to  promise: 

[  375  ] 


ROMOLA 

•  Chi  promette  e  non  mantiene 
L'  anima  sua  non  va  mai  bene.' " 

The  door  opening  on  the  wild  garden  was  closed 
now,  and  the  painter  was  at  work.  Not  at  Romola's 
picture,  however.  That  was  standing  on  the  floor, 
propped  against  the  wall,  and  Piero  stooped  to  lift  it, 
that  he  might  carry  it  into  the  proper  light.  But  in 
lifting  away  this  picture,  he  had  disclosed  another  — 
the  oil  sketch  of  Tito,  to  which  he  had  made  an  im- 
portant addition  within  the  last  few  days.  It  was  so 
much  smaller  than  the  other  picture  that  it  stood  far 
within  it,  and  Piero,  apt  to  forget  where  he  had  placed 
anything,  was  not  aware  of  what  he  had  revealed,  as, 
peering  at  some  detail  in  the  painting  which  be  held 
in  his  hands,  he  went  to  place  it  on  an  easel.  But  Rom- 
ola  exclaimed,  flushing  with  astonishment, — 

"That  is  Tito!" 

Piero  looked  round,  and  gave  a  silent  shrug.  He  was 
vexed  at  his  own  forgetfulness. 

She  was  still  looking  at  the  sketch  in  astonishment; 
but  presently  she  turned  towards  the  painter,  and  said, 
with  puzzled  alarm, — 

"Wliat  a  strange  picture!  ^Mien  did  you  paint  it  ? 
What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"A  mere  fancy  of  mine,"  said  Piero,  lifting  off  his 
skull-cap,  scratching  his  head,  and  making  the  usual 
grimace  by  which  he  avoided  the  betrayal  of  any  feel- 
ing. "I  wanted  a  handsome  young  face  for  it,  and 
your  husband's  was  just  tlie  thing." 

He  went  forward,  stooped  down  to  the  picture,  and 
lifting  it  away  with  its  back  to  Romola,  pretended  to 
[  376  ] 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD 

be  giving  it  a  passing  examination,  before  putting  it 
aside  as  a  tiling  not  good  enough  to  show. 

But  Romola,  who  had  the  fact  of  tlie  armour  in  her 
mind,  and  was  penetrated  by  tliis  strange  coincidence 
of  things  which  associated  Tito  witli  tlie  idea  of  fear, 
went  to  his  elbow  and  said, — 

"Don't  put  it  away;  let  me  look  again.  That  man 
with  the  rope  round  his  neck  —  I  saw  him  —  I  saw 
you  come  to  him  in  the  Duomo.  What  was  it  that  made 
you  put  him  into  a  picture  with  Tito?" 

Piero  saw  no  better  resource  than  to  tell  part  of  the 
truth. 

"It  was  a  mere  accident.  The  man  was  running 
away  —  running  up  the  steps,  and  caught  hold  of  your 
husband:  I  suppose  he  had  stumbled.  I  happened  to 
be  there,  and  saw  it,  and  I  thought  the  savage-looking 
old  fellow  was  a  good  subject.  But  it's  worth  noticing 
—  it's  only  a  freakish  daub  of  mine."  Piero  ended 
contemptuously,  moving  the  sketch  away  with  an  air 
of  decision,  and  putting  it  on  a  high  shelf.  "Come  and, 
look  at  the  (Edipus." 

He  had  shown  a  little  too  much  anxiety  in  putting 
the  sketch  out  of  her  sight,  and  had  produced  the  very 
impression  he  had  sought  to  prevent — that  tlicre  was 
really  sometliing  unpleasant,  somctliing  disadvantageous 
to  Tito,  in  the  circumstances  out  of  which  tlie  picture 
arose.  But  this  impression  silenced  her :  her  pride  and 
delicacy  shrank  from  questioning  furtlier,  where  ques- 
tions might  seem  to  imply  tliat  she  could  entertain 
even  a  slight  suspicion  against  her  husband.  She  merely 
said,  in  as  quiet  a  tone  as  she  could, — 
L  377   ] 


ROMOLA 

**He  was  a  strange  piteous-looking  man,  that  pris- 
oner.  Do  you  know  anything  more  of  him  ?" 

"No  more:  I  showed  him  the  way  to  the  hospital, 
that's  all.  See,  now,  the  face  of  Oedipus  is  pretty 
nearly  finished;  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

Romola  now  gave  her  whole  attention  to  her  father's 
portrait,  standing  in  long  silence  before  it. 

"Ah,"  she  said  at  last,  "you  have  done  what 
I  wanted.  You  have  given  it  more  of  the  listen- 
ing look.  My  good  Piero"  —  she  turned  towards 
him  with  bright  moist  eyes  —  "I  am  very  grateful 
to  you." 

"Now,  that's  what  I  can't  bear  in  you  women," 
said  Piero,  turning  impatiently,  and  kicking  aside  the 
objects  that  littered  the  floor  —  "you  are  always  pour- 
ing out  feelings  where  tliere's  no  call  for  them.  Why 
should  you  be  grateful  to  me  for  a  picture  you  pay 
me  for,  especially  when  I  make  you  wait  for  it  ?  And 
if  I  paint  a  picture,  I  suppose  it's  for  my  own  pleasure 
and  credit  to  paint  it  well,  eh  ?  Are  you  to  thank  a  man 
for  not  being  a  rogue  or  a  noodle  ?  It 's  enough  if  he 
himself  thanks  Messer  Domeneddio,  who  has  made 
him  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  But  women  think 
walls  are  held  together  with  honey." 

"You  crusty  Piero!  I  forgot  how  snappish  you  are. 
Here,  put  this  nice  sweetmeat  in  your  mouth,"  said 
Romola,  smiling  through  her  tears,  and  taking  some- 
thing very  crisp  and  sweet  from  the  little  basket. 

Piero  accepted  it  very  much  as  tliat  proverbial  bear 
that  dreams  of  pears  might  accept  an  exceedingly 
mellow  "swan-egg"  —  really  liking  the  gift,  but  ac- 
[  378  J 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD 

customed  to  have  his  pleasures  and  pains  concealed 
under  a  shaggy  coat. 

"It's  good.  Madonna  Antigone,"  said  Piero,  put- 
ting his  fingers  in  the  basket  for  another.  He  had 
eaten  notliing  but  hard  eggs  for  a  fortnight.  Romola 
stood  opposite  him,  feehng  her  new  anxiety  suspended 
for  a  little  while  by  tlie  sight  of  tliis  naive  enjoyment. 

"Good-bye,  Piero,"  she  said,  presently,  setting 
down  the  basket.  "I  promise  not  to  thank  you  if  you 
finish  the  portrait  soon  and  well.  I  will  tell  you,  you 
were  bound  to  do  it  for  your  own  credit." 

"Good,"  said  Piero,  curtly,  helping  her  with  much 
deftness  to  fold  her  mantle  and  veil  round  her. 

"I'm  glad  she  asked  no  more  questions  about  that 
sketch,"  he  thought,  when  he  had  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her.  "I  should  be  sorry  for  her  to  guess  that  I 
thought  her  fine  husband  a  good  model  for  a  coward. 
But  I  made  light  of  it;  she'll  not  think  of  it  again." 

Piero  was  too  sanguine,  as  open-hearted  men  are 
apt  to  be  when  they  attempt  a  little  clever  simulation. 
The  thought  of  the  picture  pressed  more  and  more 
on  Romola  as  she  walked  homeward.  She  could  not 
help  putting  togetlier  the  two  facts  of  the  chain-armour 
and  tlie  encounter  mentioned  by  Piero  between  her 
husband  and  the  prisoner,  which  had  happened  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  armour  was  adopted. 
That  look  of  terror  which  tJic  painter  had  given  Tito, 
had  he  seen  it  ?  What  could  it  all  mean  ? 

"It  means  nothing,"  she  tried  to  assure  herself.  "It 
was  a  mere  coincidence.  Shall  I  ask  Tito  alx)ut  it?'* 
Her  mind  said  at  last,  "No:  I  will  not  question  him 
[  379   ] 


ROMOLA 

about  anything  he  did  not  tell  me  spontaneously.  It  is 
an  ofFence  against  the  trust  I  owe  him."  Her  heart 
said,  "I  dare  not  ask  him." 

There  was  a  terrible  flaw  in  the  trust:  she  was  afraid 
of  any  hasty  movement,  as  men  are  who  hold  some- 
thing precious  and  want  to  believe  that  it  is  not  broken. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 
A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

THE  old  fellow  has  vanished;  went  on  towards  Arezzo 
the  next  morning;  not  liking  the  smell  of  tlie 
French,  I  suppose,  after  being  tlieir  prisoner.  I  went 
to  the  hospital  to  inquire  after  him;  I  wanted  to  know 
if  those  broth-making  monks  had  found  out  whether 
he  was  in  his  right  mind  or  not.  However,  they 
said  he  showed  no  signs  of  madness  —  only  took  no 
notice  of  questions,  and  seemed  to  be  planting  a  vine 
twenty  miles  oflF.  He  was  a  mysterious  old  tiger. 
I  should  have  liked  to  know  something  more  about 
him." 

It  was  in  Nello's  shop  that  Piero  di  Cosimo  was 
speaking,  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  November,  just  a 
week  after  tlie  entrance  of  the  French.  There  was  a 
party  of  six  or  seven  assembled  at  the  ratlier  unusual 
hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon;  for  it  was  a  day  on 
which  all  Florence  was  excited  by  the  prospect  of 
some  decisive  political  event.  Every  lounging-place 
was  full,  and  every  shopkeeper  who  had  no  wife  or 
deputy  to  leave  in  charge  stood  at  his  door  with  his 
tliumbs  in  his  belt;  while  tlie  streets  were  constantly 
sprinkled  with  artisans  pausing  or  passing  lazily  like 
floating  splinters,  ready  to  rush  forward  impetuously  if 
any  object  attracted  them. 

Nello  had  been  thrumming  the  lute  as  he  half-sat  on 
[   381    ] 


ROMOLA 

the  board  against  the  shop-window,  and  kept  an  out- 
look towards  the  piazza. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  laying  down  the  lute,  with  empha- 
sis, "I  would  not  for  a  gold  florin  have  missed  that 
sight  of  the  French  soldiers  waddling  in  their  broad 
shoes  after  their  runaway  prisoners!  That  comes 
of  leaving  my  shop  to  shave  magnificent  chins.  It  is 
always  so:  if  ever  I  quit  this  navel  of  the  earth 
something  takes  the  opportunity  of  happening  in  my 
piazza." 

"Yes,  you  ought  to  have  been  there,"  said  Piero, 
in  his  biting  way,  "just  to  see  your  favourite  Greek 
look  as  frightened  as  if  Satanasso  had  laid  hold  of  him. 
I  like  to  see  your  ready-smiling  Messeri  caught  in  a 
sudden  wind  and  obliged  to  show  their  lining  in  spite 
of  themselves.  What  colour  do  you  think  a  man's  liver 
is,  who  looks  like  a  bleached  deer  as  soon  as  a  chance 
stranger  lays  hold  of  him  suddenly?" 

"Piero,  keep  that  vinegar  of  thine  as  sauce  to  thine 
own  eggs!  What  is  it  against  my  bel  erudito  that  he 
looked  startled  when  he  felt  a  pair  of  claws  upon  him 
and  saw  an  unchained  madman  at  his  elbow?  Your 
scholar  is  not  like  tliose  beastly  Swiss  and  Germans, 
whose  heads  are  only  fit  for  battering-rams,  and  who 
have  such  large  appetites  that  they  think  nothing  of 
taking  a  cannon-ball  before  breakfast.  We  Florentines 
count  some  otlier  qualities  in  a  man  besides  tliat  \'ulgar 
stuff  called  bravery,  which  is  to  be  got  by  hiring  dunder- 
heads at  so  much  per  dozen.  I  tell  you,  as  soon  as  men 
found  out  tliat  they  had  more  brains  tlian  oxen,  tliey 
get  the  oxen  to  draw  for  tliem;  and  when  we  Florentines 
[  382  ] 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

found  out  that  we  had  more  brains  than  other  men  we 
set  them  to  fight  for  us." 

"Treason,  Nello!"  a  voice  called  out  from  the  inner 
sanctum;  "that  is  not  the  doctrine  of  the  State.  Florence 
b  grinding  its  weapons;  and  the  last  well -authenticated 
vision  announced  by  tlie  Frate  was  Mars  standing  on 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  with  his  arm  on  tlie  shoulder  of 
San  Giovanni  Battista,  who  was  offering  him  a  piece 
of  honeycomb." 

"It  is  well,  Francesco,"  said  Nello,  "Florence  has 
a  few  thicker  skulls  that  may  do  to  bombard  Pisa  with; 
there  will  still  be  the  finer  spirits  left  at  home  to  do  the 
thinking  and  the  shaving.  And  as  for  our  Piero  here, 
if  he  makes  such  a  point  of  valour,  let  him  carry  his 
biggest  brush  for  a  weapon  and  his  palette  for  a  shield, 
and  challenge  the  widest-mouthed  Swiss  he  can  see  in 
the  Prato  to  a  single  combat." 

*'Va,  Nello,"  growled  Piero,  "thy  tongue  runs  on  as 
usual,  like  a  mill  when  the  Arno's  full — whether  there's 
grist  or  not." 

"Excellent  grist,  I  tell  thee.  For  it  would  be  as  rea- 
sonable to  expect  a  grizzled  painter  like  tliee  to  be  fond 
of  getting  a  javelin  inside  thee  as  to  expect  a  man  whose 
wits  have  been  sharpened  on  the  classics  to  like  having 
his  handsome  face  clawed  by  a  wild  beast." 

"There  you  go,  supposing  you'll  get  people  to  put 
their  legs  into  a  sack  because  you  call  it  a  pair  of  hosen,'* 
said  Piero.  "AMio  said  anything  about  a  wild  beast,  or 
about  an  unarmed  man  rushing  on  battle  ?  Fighting  is 
a  trade,  and  it's  not  my  trade.  I  should  be  a  fool  to 
run  after  danger,  but  I  could  face  it  if  it  came  to  me." 
[  383   ] 


ROMOLA 

"How  is  it  you*re  so  afraid  of  the  thunder,  then, 
my  Piero?"  said  Nello,  determined  to  chase  down  the 
accuser,  "You  ought  to  be  able  to  understand  why  one 
man  is  shaken  by  a  thing  that  seems  a  triiSe  to  others  — 
you  who  hide  yourself  with  the  rats  as  soon  as  a  storm 
comes  on." 

"That  is  because  I  have  a  particular  sensibility  to 
loud  sounds ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  courage  or 
my  conscience." 

"Well,  and  Tito  Melema  may  have  a  peculiar  sens- 
ibility to  being  laid  hold  of  unexpectedly  by  prisoners 
who  have  run  away  from  French  soldiers.  Men  are 
bom  with  antipathies;  I  myself  can't  abide  the  smell  of 
mint.  Tito  was  born  with  an  antipathy  to  old  prisoners 
who  stumble  and  clutch.   Ecco!" 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  Nello 's  defence,  and  it 
was  clear  that  Piero 's  disinclination  towards  Tito  was 
not  shared  by  the  company.  The  painter,  with  his 
undecipherable  grimace,  took  the  tow  from  his  scarsella 
and  stuffed  his  ears  in  indignant  contempt,  while  Nello 
went  on  triumphantly,  — 

"No,  my  Piero,  I  can't  afford  to  have  my  bcl  erudito 
decried;  and  Florence  can't  afford  it  either,  witli  her 
scholars  moulting  off  her  at  the  early  age  of  forty.  Our 
Phcenix  Pico  just  gone  straight  to  Paradise,  as  the  Frate 
has  informed  us;  and  the  incomparable  Poliziano,  not 
two  months  since,  gone  to  —  well,  well,  let  us  hope  he 
is  not  gone  to  the  eminent  scholars  in  the  Malebolge." 

"By  tlie  way,"  said  Francesco  Cei,  "have  you  heard 
that  Camilla  Rucellai  has  outdone  the  Frate  in  her  pro- 
phecies ?  She  prophesied  two  years  ago  that  Pico  would 
[  384  ] 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

die  in  the  time  of  lilies.  He  has  died  in  November.  'Not 
at  all  tlie  time  of  lilies,'  said  the  scorners.  'Go  to?'  says 
Camilla;  'it  is  the  lilies  of  France  I  meant,  and  it  seems 
to  me  tliey  are  close  enough  under  your  nostrils.'  I  say, 
'Euge,  Camilla!'  If  the  Frate  can  prove  tliat  any  one  of 
his  visions  has  been  as  well  fulfilled,  I'll  declare  myself 
a  Piagnone  to-morrow." 

"You  are  something  too  flippant  about  the  Frate, 
Francesco,"  said  Pietro  Cennini,  the  scholarly.  "We 
are  all  indebted  to  him  in  these  weeks  for  preaching 
peace  and  quietness,  and  tlie  laying  aside  of  party  quar- 
rels. They  are  men  of  small  discernment  who  would  be 
glad  to  see  the  people  slipping  the  Frate 's  leash  just  now. 
And  if  the  Most  Christian  King  is  obstinate  about  the 
treaty  to-day,  and  will  not  sign  what  is  fair  and  honour- 
able to  Florence,  Fra  Girolamo  is  the  man  we  must  trust 
in  to  bring  him  to  reason." 

"You  speak  truth,  Messer  Pietro,"  said  Nello;  "the 
Frate  is  one  of  tlie  firmest  nails  Florence  has  to  hang 
on  —  at  least,  that  is  the  opinion  of  tlie  most  respectable 
chins  I  have  the  honour  of  shaving.  But  young  Messer' 
Niccolo  was  saying  here  tlic  oilier  morning  —  and  ' 
doubtless  Francesco  means  tlie  same  thing  —  there  is 
as  wonderful  a  power  of  stretching  in  the  meaning  of 
visions  as  in  Dido's  bull's  hide.  It  seems  to  me  a  dream 
may  mean  whatever  comes  after  it.  As  our  JVanco 
Sacchetti  says,  a  woman  dreams  overnight  of  a  serpent 
biting  her,  breaks  a  drinking-cup  the  next  day,  and  crie3 
out,  'I^ok  you,  I  thought  something  would  happen  — 
it's  plain  now  what  the  serpent  meant.'" 

"But  the  Frate 's  visions  arc  not  of  that  sort,"  said 
[  385   ] 


ROMOLA 

Cronaca.  "He  not  only  says  what  will  happen  — that 
the  Church  will  be  scourged  and  renovated,  and  the 
heathens  converted  —  he  says  it  shall  happen  quickly. 
He  is  no  slippery  pretender  who  provides  loopholes  for 
himself,  he  is  — " 

"What  is  this?  what  is  this?"  exclaimed  Nello, 
jumping  off  the  board,  and  putting  his  head  out  at  the 
door.  "Here  are  people  streaming  into  the  piazza,  and 
shouting.  Something  must  have  happened  in  the  Via 
Larga.  Aha!"  he  burst  forth  with  delighted  astonish- 
ment, stepping  out  laughing  and  waving  his  cap. 

All  the  rest  of  the  company  hastened  to  the  door. 
News  from  the  Via  Larga  was  just  what  they  had  been 
waiting  for.  But  if  the  news  had  come  into  the  piazza, 
they  were  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  form  of  its  advent. 
Carried  above  the  shoulders  of  the  people,  on  a  bencli 
apparently  snatched  up  in  the  street,  sat  Tito  Melema, 
in  smiling  amusement  at  the  compulsion  he  was  under. 
His  cap  had  slipped  off  his  head,  and  hung  by  the 
beech etto  which  was  wound  loosely  round  his  neck; 
and  as  he  saw  the  group  at  Nello's  door  he  lifted  up  his 
fingers  in  beckoning  recognition.  The  next  minute  he 
had  leaped  from  the  bench  on  to  a  cart  filled  with  bales, 
that  stood  in  tlie  broad  space  between  tlie  Baptistery 
and  the  steps  of  the  Duomo,  while  the  people  swarmed 
round  him  with  the  noisy  eagerness  of  poultry  expecting 
to  be  fed.  But  there  was  silence  when  he  began  to  speak 
in  his  clear  mellow  voice,  — 

"Citizens  of  Florence!  I  have  no  warrant  to  tell  the 
news  except  your  will.  But  the  news  is  good,  and  will 
harm  no  man  in  the  telling.  The  Most  Christian  King 
[  386  ] 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

is  signing  a  treaty  that  is  honourable  to  Florence.  But 
you  owe  it  to  one  of  your  citizens,  who  spoke  a  word 
worthy  of  the  ancient  Romans  —  you  owe  it  to  Piero 
Capponi!" 

Immediately  there  was  a  roar  of  voices. 

"Capponi!  Capponi!  What  said  our  Piero?"  "Ah! 
he  wouldn't  stand  being  sent  from  Herod  to  Pilate!" 
"We  knew  Piero!"  "Orsul  Tell  us,  what  did  he  say  ?" 

WTien  the  roar  of  insistence  had  subsided  a  little, 
Tito  began  again,  — 

"The  Most  Christian  King  demanded  a  little  too 
much  —  was  obstinate  —  said  at  last,  *  I  shall  order  my 
trumpets  to  sound.'  Then,  Florentine  citizens!  your 
Piero  Capponi,  speaking  with  the  voice  of  a  free  city, 
said, '  If  you  sound  your  trumpets,  we  will  ring  our  bells ! ' 
He  snatched  the  copy  of  the  dishonouring  conditions 
from  the  hands  of  the  Secretary,  tore  it  in  pieces,  and 
turned  to  leave  the  royal  presence." 

Again  there  were  loud  shouts  —  and  again  impatient 
demands  for  more. 

"Then,  Florentines,  the  high  majesty  of  France  felt, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  all  the  majesty  of  a  free  city. 
And  the  Most  Christian  King  himself  hastened  from 
his  place  to  call  Piero  Capponi  back.  The  great  spirit 
of  your  Florentine  city  did  its  work  by  a  great  word, 
without  need  of  the  great  actions  that  lay  ready  behind  it. 
And  the  King  has  consented  to  sign  the  treaty,  which 
preserves  the  honour,  as  well  as  the  safety,  of  Florence. 
The  banner  of  France  will  float  over  over)'  Florentine 
galley  in  sign  of  amity  and  common  privilege,  but  above 
that  banner  will  be  written  the  word  'Liberty*! 
[  387  ] 
A 


ROMOLA 

"That  is  all  the  news  I  have  to  tell;  is  it  not  enough  ? 
—  since  it  is  for  the  glory  of  every  one  of  you,  citizens 
of  Florence,  that  you  have  a  fellow  citizen  who  knows 
how  to  speak  your  will." 

As  the  shouts  rose  again,  Tito  looked  round  with 
inward  amusement  at  the  various  crowd,  each  of  whom 
was  elated  with  the  notion  that  Piero  Capponi  had  some- 
how represented  him  —  that  he  was  the  mind  of  which 
Capponi  was  the  mouthpiece.  He  enjoyed  the  humour 
of  the  incident,  which  had  suddenly  transformed  him, 
an  alien,  and  a  friend  of  the  Medici,  into  [an  orator 
who  tickled  the  ears  of  the  people  blatant  for  some 
unknown  good  which  they  called  liberty^  He  felt  quite 
glad  that  he  had  been  laid  hold  of  and  hurried  along  by 
A)  the  crowd  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the  palace  in  the  Via 
Larga  with  a  commission  to  the  Signoria.  It  was  very 
easy,  very  pleasant,  this  exercise  of  speaking  to  tlie 
general  satisfaction :  a  man  who  knew  how  to  persuade 
need  never  be  in  danger  from  any  party;  he  could  con- 
vince each  that  he  was  feigning  with  all  the  others.  The 
gestures  and  faces  of  weavers  and  dyers  were  certainly 
1  amusing  when  looked  at  from  above  in  tliis  way. 
^  Tito  was  beginning  to  get  easier  in  his  armour,  and 
at  this  moment  was  quite  unconscious  of  it.  He  stood 
with  one  hand  holding  his  recovered  cap,  and  with  the 
other  at  his  belt,  the  light  of  a  complacent  smile  in  his 
long  lustrous  eyes,  as  he  made  a  parting  reverence  to 
his  audience,  before  springing  down  from  the  bales  — 
when  suddenly  his  glance  met  that  of  a  man  who  had 
not  at  all  the  amusing  aspect  of  the  exulting  weavers, 
dyers,  and  wool-carders.  The  face  of  this  man  was  clean- 
[  388  ] 


/^. 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

shaven,  his  hair  close-clipped,  and  he  wore  a  decent  felt 
hat.  A  single  glance  would  hardly  have  suflSced  to 
assure  any  one  but  Tito  that  tliis  was  the  face  of 
the  escaped  prisoner  who  had  laid  hold  of  him  on  tlie 
steps.  But  to  Tito  it  came  not  simply  as  the  face  of 
the  escaped  prisoner,  but  as  a  face  with  which  he  had 
been  familiar  long  years  before. 

It  seemed  all  compressed  into  a  second  —  the  sight 
of  Baldassarre  looking  at  him,  the  sensation  shooting 
through  him  like  a  fiery  arrow,  and  the  act  of  leap- 
ing from  the  cart.  He  would  have  leaped  down  in 
the  same  instant,  whether  he  had  seen  Baldassarre  or 
not,  for  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone  to  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio:  this  time  he  had  not  betrayed  himself  by  look  ,^ 
or  movement,  and  he  said  inwardly  that  he  should  not  > 
be  taken  by  surprise  again;  he  should  be  prepared  to 
see  this  face  rise  up  continually  like  the  intermittent 
blotch  that  comes  in  diseased  vision.  But  this  reap- 
pearance of  Baldassarre  so  much  more  in  his  own 
likeness  tightened  the  pressure  of  dread:  the  idea  of 
his  madness  lost  its  likelihood  now  he  was  shaven  and 
clad  like  a  decent  tliough  poor  citizen.  Certainly,  tliere 
was  a  great  change  in  his  face;  but  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  And  yet,  if  he  were  perfectly  sane,  —  in 
possession  of  all  his  powers  and  all  his  learning,  —  why 
was  he  lingering  in  tliis  way  before  making  known 
his  identity?  It  must  be  for  tlie  sake  of  making  his 
scheme  of  vengeance  more  complete.  But  he  did  linger: 
tliat  at  least  gave  an  opportunity  for  flight.  And  Titoy 
began  to  think  that  fligiit  was  his  only  resource. 

But  while  he,  witli  his  back  turned  on  the  Piazza  del 
[  389   ] 


ROMOLA 

Duomo,  had  lost  the  recollection  of  the  new  part  he  had 
been  playing,  and  was  no  longer  thinking  of  the  many 
things  which  a  ready  brain  and  tongue  made  easy,  but 
of  a  few  things  which  destiny  had  somehow  made  very 
difficult,)the  enthusiasm  which  he  had  fed  contemptu- 

f     ously  was  creating  a  scene  in  that  piazza  in  grand  con- 
trast with  the  inward  drama  of  self-centred  fear  which 

(_he  had  carried  away  from  it. 

The  crowd,  on  Tito's  disappearance,  had  begun  to 
turn  their  faces  towards  the  outlets  of  the  piazza  in  the 
direction  of  the  Via  Larga,  when  the  sight  of  mazzieri, 
or  mace-bearers,  entering  from  the  Via  de'  Martelli, 
announced  the  approach  of  dignitaries.  They  must  be 
the  syndics,  or  commissioners  charged  with  the  effecting 
of  the  treaty;  the  treaty  must  be  already  signed,  and  they 
had  come  away  from  the  royal  presence.  Piero  Capponi 
was  coming  —  the  brave  heart  that  had  known  how  to 
speak  for  Florence.  The  effect  on  the  crowd  was  re- 
markable; they  parted  witli  softening,  dropping  voices, 
subsiding  into  silence,  —  and  the  silence  became  so 
perfect  that  the  tread  of  the  syndics  on  the  broad  pave- 
ment, and  the  rustle  of  their  black  silk  garments,  could 
be  heard,  like  rain  in  the  night.  There  were  four  of 
them;  but  it  was  not  tlie  two  learned  doctors  of  law, 
Messer  Guidantonio  Vespucci  and  Messer  Domenico 
Bonsi,  that  the  crowd  waited  for;  it  was  not  Francesco 
Valori,  popular  as  he  had  become  in  these  late  days. 
The  moment  belonged  to  another  man(  of  firm  presence, 
as  little  inclined  to  humour  tlie  people  as  to  humour  any 
other  unreasonable  claimants  —  loving  order,  like  one 
who  by  force  of  fortune  had  been  made  a  merchant,  and 
[   390  ] 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH 

by  force  of  nature  had  become  a  soldierj  It  was  not  till 
he  was  seen  at  the  entrance  of  the  piazza  that  the  silence 
was  broken,  and  then  one  loud  shout  of  "Capponi,  Cap- 
poni!  Well  done,  Capponi!"  rang  through  the  piazza. 
The  simple,  resolute  man  looked  round  him  with 
grave  joy.  His  fellow  citizens  gave  him  a  great  funeral 
two  years  later,  when  he  had  died  in  fight;  there  were 
torches  carried  by  all  the  magistracy,  and  torches  again, 
and  trains  of  banners.  But  it  is  not  known  that  he  felt 
any  joy  in  the  oration  tliat  was  delivered  in  his  praise,  C".  pf  "^ 
as  the  banners  waved  over  his  bier.  Let  us  be  glad  that 
he  got  some  thanks  and  praise  while  he  lived. 


A/.'^, 


CHAPTER   XXX 
THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

IT  was  the  first  time  that  Baldassarre  had  been  in  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo  since  his  escape.  He  had  a  strong 
desire  to  hear  the  remarkable  monk  preach  again,  but 
he  had  shrunk  from  reappearing  in  the  same  spot  where 
he  had  been  seen  half -naked,  with  neglected  hair,  with 
a  rope  round  his  neck  —  in  the  same  spot  where  he  had 
been  called  a  madman.  The  feeling,  in  its  freshness, 
was  too  strong  to  be  overcome  by  any  tnist  he  had  in 
the  change  he  had  made  in  his  appearance;  for  when  the 
words  "some  madman,  surely,"  had  fallen  from  Tito's 
lips,  it  was  not  their  baseness  and  cruelty  only  tliat  had 
made  their  viper  sting  —  it  was  Baldassarre 's  instanta- 
neous bitter  consciousness  that  he  might  be  unable  to 
prove  the  words  false.  Along  with  tlie  passionate  desire 
for  vengeance  which  possessed  him  had  arisen  the  keen 
sense  that  his  power  of  achieving  tlie  vengeance  was 
doubtful.  It  was  as  if  Tito  had  been  helped  by  some 
diabolical  prompter,  who  had  whispered  Baldassarre's 
I  saddest  secret  in  the  traitor's  ear.  He  was  not  mad;  for 
he  carried  within  him  that  piteous  stamp  of  sanity,  tlie 
clear  consciousness  of  shattered  faculties;  he  measured 
his  own  feebleness.  With  the  first  movement  of  vin- 
dictive  rage  awoke  a  vague  caution,  like  tliat  of  a  wild 
beast  that  is  fierce  but  feeble  —  or  like  tliat  of  an  insect 
whose  little  fragment  of  earth  has  given  way,  and  made 
[  392  ] 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

it  pause  in  a  palsy  of  distrust.  It  was  this  distrust,  this 
determination  to  take  no  step  which  might  betray  any- 
tliing  concerning  himself,  that  had  made  Baldassarre 
reject  Piero  di  Cosimo's  friendly  advances. 

He  had  been  equally  cautious  at  the  hospital,  only 
telling,  in  answer  to  tlie  questions  of  the  brethren  there, 
that  he  had  been  made  a  prisoner  by  tlie  French  on  his 
way  from  Genoa.  But  his  age,  and  the  indications  in  his 
speech  and  manner  that  he  was  of  a  different  class  from 
the  ordinary  mendicants  and  poor  travellers  who  were 
entertained  in  the  hospital,  had  induced  the  monks  to 
offer  him  extra  charity:  a  coarse  woollen  tunic  to  pro- 
tect him  from  the  cold,  a  pair  of  peasant's  shoes,  and  a 
few  danari,  smallest  of  Florentine  coins,  to  help  him  on 
his  way.  He  had  gone  on  the  road  to  Arezzo  early  in  the 
morning;  but  he  had  paused  at  the  first  little  town,  and 
had  used  a  couple  of  his  danari  to  get  himself  shaved, 
and  to  have  his  circle  of  hair  clipped  short,  in  his  former 
fashion.  The  barber  there  had  a  little  hand-mirror  of 
bright  steel:  it  was  a  long  while,  it  was  years,  since  Bal- 
dassarre had  looked  at  himself,  and  now,  as  his  eyes  fell 
on  that  hand-mirror,  a  new  thought  shot  through  his 
mind.  "Was  he  so  changed  that  Tito  really  did  not 
know  him  ?"  The  thought  was  such  a  sudden  arrest  of 
impetuous  currents  that  it  was  a  painful  shock  to  him; 
his  hand  shook  like  a  leaf,  as  he  put  away  the  barber's 
arm  and  asked  for  tlie  mirror.  He  wished  to  see  himself 
before  he  was  shaved.  The  barber,  noticing  his  tremu- 
lousness,  held  the  mirror  for  him. 

No,  he  was  not  so  changed  as  that.  He  himself  had 
known  the  wrinkles  as  tliey  had  been  tliree  years  ago; 
[  393  ] 


ROMOLA 

they  were  only  deeper  now :  there  was  the  same  rough, 
clumsy  skin,  making  little  superficial  bosses  on  the  brow, 
like  so  many  cipher-marks;  the  skin  was  only  yellower, 
only  looked  more  like  a  lifeless  rind.  That  shaggy  white 
beard  —  it  was  no  disguise  to  eyes  that  had  looked 
closely  at  him  for  sixteen  years  —  to  eyes  that  ought  to 
have  searched  for  him  with  the  expectation  of  finding 
him  changed,  as  men  search  for  the  beloved  among  the 
bodies  cast  up  by  the  waters.  There  was  something  dif- 
ferent in  his  glance,  but  it  was  a  difference  that  should 
only  have  made  the  recognition  of  him  the  more  startling ; 
for  is  not  a  known  voice  all  the  more  thrilling  when  it  is 
heard  as  a  cry?  But  the  doubt  was  folly:  he  had  felt 
that  Tito  knew  him.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  pushed 
the  mirror  away.  The  strong  currents  were  rushing  on 
again,  and  the  energies  of  hatred  and  vengeance  were 
active  once  more. 

He  went  back  on  the  way  towards  Florence  again, 
but  he  did  not  wish  to  enter  the  city  till  dusk;  so  be 
turned  aside  from  the  highroad,  and  sat  doT\Ti  by  a  little 
pool  shadowed  on  one  side  by  alder-bushes  still  sprinkled 
with  yellow  leaves.  It  was  a  calm  November  day,  and 
he  no  sooner  saw  the  pool  than  he  thought  its  still  sur- 
face might  be  a  mirror  for  him.  He  wanted  to  contem- 
plate himself  slowly,  as  he  had  not  dared  to  do  in  the 
presence  of  the  barber.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
pool,  and  bent  forward  to  look  earnestly  at  the  image  of 
himself. 

Was  there  something  wandering  and  imbecile  in  his 
face  —  something  like  what  he  felt  in  his  mind  ? 

Not  now;  not  when  he  was  examining  himself  with 
[  394  ] 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

a  look  of  eager  inquiry;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  an 
intense  purpose  in  his  eyes.  But  at  other  times  ?  Yes,  it 
must  be  so:  in  the  long  hours  when  he  had  the  vague 
aching  of  an  unremembered  past  within  him  —  when 
he  seemed  to  sit  in  dark  loneliness,  visited  by  whispers 
which  died  out  mockingly  as  he  strained  his  ear  after 
them,  and  by  forms  that  seemed  to  approach  him  and 
float  away  as  he  thrust  out  his  hand  to  grasp  them  —  in 
those  hours,  doubtless,  there  must  be  continual  frustra- 
tion and  amazement  in  his  glance.  And  more  horrible 
still,  when  the  tliick  cloud  parted  for  a  moment,  and,  as 
he  sprang  forward  with  hope,  rolled  together  again,  and 
left  him  helpless  as  before;  doubtless,  there  was  then 
a  blank  confusion  in  his  face,  as  of  a  man  suddenly 
smitten  with  blindness.  — ' 

Could  he  prove  anything  ?  Could  he  even  begin  to 
allege  an}i;hing,  with  the  confidence  that  the  links  of 
thought  would  not  break  away?  Would  any  believe 
tliat  he  had  ever  had  a  mind  filled  with  rare  knowledge, 
busy  witli  close  thoughts,  ready  with  various  speech  ? 
It  had  all  slipped  away  from  him  —  that  laboriously- 
gathered  store.  Was  it  utterly  and  for  ever  gone  from 
him,  like  the  waters  from  an  um  lost  in  the  wide  ocean  ? 
Or,  was  it  still  within  him,  imprisoned  by  some  obstruc- 
tion that  might  one  day  break  asunder  ? 

It  might  be  so;  he  tried  to  keep  his  grasp  on  that  hope. 
For,  since  the  day  when  he  had  first  walked  feebly  from 
his  couch  of  straw,  and  had  felt  a  new  darkness  within 
him  under  tlie  sunlight,  his  mind  had  undergone  changes, 
partly  gradual  and  persistent,  partly  sudden  and  fleeting. 
As  he  had  recovered  his  strength  of  body,  he  had  recov- 
[  395  ] 


ROMOLA 

ered  his  self-command  and  the  energy  of  his  will ;  he  had 
recovered  the  memory  of  all  that  part  of  his  life  which 
was  closely  enwrought  with  his  emotions;  and  he  had 
felt  more  and  more  constantly  and  painfully  the  uneasy 
sense  of  lost  knowledge.  But  more  than  that  —  once  or 
twice,  when  he  had  been  strongly  excited,  he  had  seemed 
momentarily  to  be  in  entire  possession  of  his  past  self, 
as  old  men  doze  for  an  instant  and  get  back  the  con- 
sciousness of  tlieir  youtli :  he  seemed  again  to  see  Greek 
pages  and  understand  them,  again  to  feel  his  mind  mov- 
ing unbenumbed  among  familiar  ideas.  It  had  been  but 
a  flash,  and  the  darkness  closing  in  again  seemed  the 
more  horrible;  but  might  not  the  same  thing  happen 
again  for  longer  periods  ?  If  it  would  only  come  and 
stay  long  enough  for  him  to  achieve  a  revenge  —  de\ise 
an  exquisite  suffering,  such  as  a  mere  right  arm  could 
never  inflict! 

He  raised  himself  from  his  stooping  attitude,  and, 
folding  his  arms,  attempted  to  concentrate  all  his  men- 
tal force  on  the  plan  he  must  immediately  pursue.  He 
had  to  wait  for  knowledge  and  opportunity,  and  while 
he  waited  he  must  have  tlie  means  of  living  without 
beggary.  What  he  dreaded  of  all  things  now  was,  that 
any  one  should  think  him  a  foolish,  helpless  old  man. 
No  one  must  know  that  half  his  memory  was  gone:  the 
lost  strength  might  come  again;  and  if  it  were  only  for 
a  little  while,  that  might  be  enough. 

He  knew  how  to  begin  to  get  the  information  he 

wanted  about  Tito.  He  had  repeated  Oie  words  "Bratti 

Ferravecchi "  so  constantly  after  they  had  been  uttered 

to  him,  that  they  never  slipped  from  him  for  long  to- 

[396  J 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

gether.  A  man  at  Genoa,  on  whose  finger  he  had  seen  ^ 
Tito's  ring,  had  told  him  that  he  bought  tliat  ring  at  >-  • 
Florence,  of  a  young  Greek,  well  dressed,  and  with  a 
handsome  dark  face,  in  the  shop  of  a  rigaUiere  called 
Bratti  Ferravecchi,  in  the  street  also  called  Ferravecchi. 
This  discovery  had  caused  a   violent  agitation   in  Bal- 
dassarre.^JJntil  then  he  had  clung  with  all  the  tenacity 
of  his  fervent  nature  to  his  faith  in  Tito,  and  had  not  \y 
for  a  moment  believed  himself  to  be  wilfully  forsakenJ 
At  first  he  had  said,  "My  bit  of  parchment  has  never 
reached  him;  that  is  why  I  am  still  toiling  at  Antioch. 
But  he  is  searching;  he  knows  where  I  was  lost:  he  will 
trace  me  out,  and  find  me  at  last."  Then,  when  he  was 
taken  to  Corinth,  he  induced  his  owners,  by  the  assur- 
ance that  he  should  be  sought  out  and  ransomed,  to 
provide  securely  against  the  failure  of  any  inquiries 
that  might  be  made  about  him  at  Antioch;  and  at  Cor- 
inth he  thought  joyfully,  "Here,  at  last,  he  must  find 
me.  Here  he  is  sure  to  touch,  whichever  way  he  goes.'* 
But  before  another  year  had  passed,  the  illness  had 
come  from  which  he  h.'id  risen  with  body  and  mind  so 
shattered  that  he  was  worse  tlian  wortliless  to  his  owners, 
except  for  the  sake  of  the  ransom  that  did  not  come. 
Then,  as  he  sat  helpless  in  the  morning  sunlight,  he 
began  to  tliink,  "Tito  has  been  drowned,  or  they  have 
made  him  a  prisoner  too.  I  shall  see  him  no  more.  He 
set  out  after  me,  but  misfortune  overtook  him.    I  shall 
see  his  face  no  more."  Sitting  in  his  new  feebleness  and 
despair,  supporting  his  head  between  his  hands,  with 
blank  eyes  and  lips  that  moved  uncertainly,  he  looked 
so  much  like  a  hopelessly  imbecile  old  man   that  his 
[  397  ] 


ROMOLA 

owners  were  contented  to  be  rid  of  him,  and  allowed 
a  Genoese  merchant,  who  had  compassion  on  him  as 
an  Italian,  to  take  him  on  board  his  galley.  In  a  voyage 
of  many  months  in  the  Archipelago  and  along  the  sea- 
board of  Asia  Minor,  Baldassarre  had  recovered  his 
bodily  strength,  but  on  landing  at  Genoa  he  had  so 
weary  a  sense  of  his  desolateness  that  he  almost  wished 
he  had  died  of  that  illness  at  Corinth.  There  was  just 
one  possibility  that  hindered  the  wish  from  being  de- 
cided: it  was  that  Tito  might  not  be  dead,  but  living 
in  a  state  of  imprisonment  or  destitution;  and  if  he 
lived,  there  was  still  a  hope  for  Baldassarre  —  faint, 
perhaps,  and  likely  to  be  long  deferred,  but  still  a  hope, 
that  he  might  find  his  child,  his  cherished  son  again; 
might  yet  again  clasp  hands  and  meet  face  to  face  with 
the  one  being  who  remembered  him  as  he  had  been 
before  his  mind  was  broken. 

In  this  state  of  feeling  he  had  chanced  to  meet  the 
stranger  who  wore  Tito's  onyx  ring,  and  tliough  Baldas- 
sarre would  have  been  unable  to  describe  tlie  ring  be- 
forehand, the  sight  of  it  stirred  the  dormant  fibres,  and 
he  recognized  it.  That  Tito,  nearly  a  year  after  his  fatlier 
had  been  parted  from  him,  should  have  been  living  in 
apparent  prosperity  at  Florence,  selling  tlie  gem  which 
he  ought  not  to  have  sold  till  the  last  extremity,  was 
a  fact  that  Baldassarre  shrank  from  tr}'ing  to  account 
for:  he  was  glad  to  be  stunned  and  bewildered  by  it, 
rather  than  to  have  any  distinct  tliought;  he  tried  to 
feel  nothing  but  joy  that  he  should  behold  Tito  again. 
Perhaps  Tito  had  thought  tliat  his  father  was  dead; 
somehow  the  mystery  would  be  explained.  "But  at 
[  398  ] 


I 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

least  I  shall  meet  eyes  that  will  remember  me.    I  am  </.' 
not  alone  in  the  world." 

And  now  again  Baldassarrc  said,  "I  am  not  alone 
in  tlie  world;  I  shall  never  be  alone,  for  my  revenge  is 
with  me." 

It  was  as  the  instrument  of  that  revenge,  as  some- 
tliing  merely  external  and  subservient  to  his  true  life, 
that  he  bent  down  again  to  examine  himself  with  hard 
curiosity  —  not,  he  thouglit,  because  he  had  any  care 
for  a  witliered,  forsaken  old  man,  whom  nol)ody  loved, 
whose  soul  was  like  a  deserted  home,  where  the  ashes 
were  cold  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  wal]s  were  bare  of 
all  but  the  markj  of  what  had  been.  /  It  is  in  the  nature  ( 
of  all  human  passion,  the  lowest  as  well  as  the  highest,  /V-^- 
that  there  is  a  point  where  it  ceases  to  be  properly 
egoistic,  and  is  like  a  fire  kindled  within  our  being  to 
which  ever}ihing  else  in  us  is  mere  fuel. 

He  looked  at  the  pale  black-browed  image  in  the 
water  till  he  identified  it  witli  that  self  from  which  his 
revenge  seemed  to  be  a  thing  apart;  and  he  felt  as  if 
the  image  too  heard  the  silent  language  of  his  thought. 

"I  was  a  loving  fool  —  I  worshipped  a  woman  once, 
and  believed  she  could  care  for  me;  and  then  I  took 
a  helpless  child  and  fostered  him;  and  I  watched  him  as 
he  grew,  to  see  if  he  would  care  for  me  only  a  little  — • 
care  for  me  over  and  above  the  good  he  got  from  me. 
I  would  have  torn  open  my  breast  to  warm  him  with 
my  lifeblood  if  I  could  only  have  seen  him  care  a  little 
for  the  pain  of  my  wound.  I  have  laboured,  I  have 
strained  to  crush  out  of  this  hard  life  one  drop  of  un- 
selfish love.  Fool!  men  love  tlieir  own  delights;  there 
[  399  ] 


ROMOLA 

is  no  delight  to  be  had  in  me.  And  yet  I  watched  till 
I  believed  I  saw  what  I  watched  for.  When  he  was  a 
child  he  lifted  soft  eyes  towards  me,  and  held  my  hand 
willingly:  I  thought,  this  boy  will  surely  love  me  a  little: 
because  I  give  my  life  to  him  and  strive  that  he  shall 
know  no  sorrow,  he  will  care  a  little  when  I  am  thirsty 
—  the  drop  he  lays  on  my  parched  lips  will  be  a  joy  to 
him.  .  .  .  Curses  on  him!  I  wish  I  may  see  him  lie 
with  tliose  red  lips  white  and  dry  as  ashes,  and  when 
he  looks  for  pity  I  wish  he  may  see  my  face  rejoicing 
in  his  pain.  It  is  all  a  lie  —  this  world  is  a  lie  —  there 
is  no  goodness  but  in  hate.  Fool!  not  one  drop  of  love 
came  with  all  your  striving:  life  has  not  given  you  one 
drop.  But  there  are  deep  draughts  in  this  world  for 
hatred  and  revenge.  I  have  memory  left  for  that,  and 
there  is  strength  in  my  arm  —  there  is  strength  in  my 
will  — and  if  I  can  do  nothing  but  kill  him  — " 

But  Baldassarre's  mind  rejected  the  thought  of  that 

brief  punishment.    His  whole  soul  had  been  thrilled 

into  immediate  unreasoning  belief  in  that  eternity  of 

^\\S^  vengeance  where  he,  an  undying  hate,  might  clutch 

}r    .'A        for  ever  an  undying  traitor,  and  hear  that  fair  smiling 

\^y  hardness  cry  and  moan  with  anguish.  But  the  primary 

y>  need  and  hope  was  to  see  a  slow  revenge  under  tlie 

same  sky  and  on  the  same  eartli  where  he  himself  had 

been  forsaken  and  had  fainted  with  despair.    And  as 

soon  as  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  tlie  means 

of  attaining  his  end,  the  sense  of  his  weakness  pressed 

upon  him  like  a  frosty  ache.  This  despised  body,  which 

was  to  be  tlie  instrument  of  a  sublime  vengeance,  must 

be  nourished  and  decently  clad.   If  he  had  to  wait  he 

[  400  ] 


[w 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

must  labour,  and  his  labour  must  be  of  a  humble  sort, 
for  he  had  no  skill.  He  wondered  whether  the  sight  of 
written  characters  would  so  stimulate  his  faculties  that 
he  might  venture  to  tr}'  and  find  work  as  a  copyist:  that  'X 
might  win  him  some  credence  for  his  past  scholarship. 
But  no !  he  dared  trust  neitlier  hand  nor  brain.  He  must 
be  content  to  do  the  work  that  was  most  like  tliat  of 
a  beast  of  burden:  in  tliis  mercantile  city  many  porters 
must  be  wanted,  and  he  could  at  least  carry  weights. 
Thanks  to  the  justice  tliat  struggled  in  this  confused 
world  in  behalf  of  vengeance,  his  limbs  had  got  back 
some  of  their  old  sturdiness.  He  was  stripped  of  all  else 
that  men  would  give  coin  for. 

But  the  new  urgency  of  tliis  habitual  thought  brought 
a  new  suggestion.  There  was  sometliing  lianging  by  a 
cord  round  his  bare  neck;  something  apparently  so  paltry 
that  Uie  piety  of  Turks  and  Frenchmen  had  spared  it  — 
a  tiny  parchment  bag  blackened  with  age.  It  had  hung 
round  his  neck  as  a  precious  charm  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  he  had  kept  it  carefully  on  his  breast,  not  believing 
that  it  contained  anytliing  but  a  tiny  scroll  of  parch- 
ment rolled  up  hard.  He  might  long  ago  have  tlirown 
it  away  as  a  relic  of  his  dead  motlier's  superstition;  but 
he  had  tliought  of  it  as  a  relic  of  her  love,  and  had  kept 
it.  It  was  part  of  the  piety  associated  with  such  hrcviy 
tliat  tliey  should  never  be  opened,  and  at  any  previous 
moment  in  his  life  Baldassarre  would  have  said  tliat 
no  sort  of  thirst  would  prevail  upon  him  to  open  tliis 
little  bag  for  tlie  chance  of  finding  that  it  contained, 
not  parchment,  but  an  engraved  amulet  which  would 
be  wortli  money.  But  now  a  tliirst  had  come  like  tliat 
[   401    ] 


ROMOLA 

which  makes  men  open  their  own  veins  to  satisfy  it, 
and  the  thought  of  the  possible  amulet  no  sooner  crossed 
Baldassarre's  mind  than  with  nervous  fingers  he 
snatched  the  breve  from  his  neck.  It  all  rushed  through 
his  mind  —  the  long  years  he  had  worn  it,  the  far-oflF 
sunny  balcony  at  Naples  looking  towards  the  blue 
waters,  where  he  had  leaned  against  his  mother's  knee; 
but  it  made  no  moment  of  hesitation :  all  piety  now  was 
transmuted  into  a  just  revenge.  He  bit  and  tore  till 
the  doubles  of  parchment  were  laid  open,  and  then  — 
it  was  a  sight  that  made  him  pant  —  there  was  an 
amulet.  It  was  very  small,  but  it  was  as  blue  as  those 
far-off  waters;  it  was  an  engraved  sapphire,  which  must 
be  worth  some  gold  ducats.  Baldassarre  no  sooner 
saw  those  possible  ducats  than  he  saw  some  of  them 
exchanged  for  a  poniard.  He  did  not  want  to  use  the 
poniard  yet,  but  he  longed  to  possess  it.  If  he  could 
grasp  its  handle  and  try  its  edge,  that  blank  in  his  mind 
—  that  past  which  fell  away  continually  — would  not 
make  him  feel  so  cruelly  helpless:  the  sharp  steel  that 
despised  talents  and  eluded  strength  would  be  at  his  side, 
as  the  unfailing  friend  of  feeble  justice.  There  was 
a  sparkling  triumph  under  Baldassarre's  black  eyebrows 
as  he  replaced  tlie  little  sapphire  inside  tlie  bits  of 
parchment  and  wound  the  string  tightly  round  Uiem. 
It  was  nearly  dusk  now,  and  he  rose  to  walk  back 
towards  Florence.  With  his  danari  to  buy  him  some 
bread,  he  felt  rich:  he  could  lie  out  in  the  open  air,  as 
he  found  plenty  more  doing  in  all  corners  of  Florence. 
And  in  the  next  few  days  he  had  sold  his  sapphire,  had 
added  to  his  clothing,  had  bought  a  bright  dagger,  and 
[   402   ] 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

had  still  a  pair  of  gold  florins  left.  But  he  meant  to 
hoard  that  treasure  carefully:  his  lodging  was  an  out- 
house witli  a  heap  of  straw  in  it,  in  a  thinly  inhabited 
part  of  Oltrarno,  and  he  thought  of  looking  about  for 
work  as  a  porter. 

He  had  bought  his  dagger  at  Bratti's.  Paying  his 
meditated  visit  there  one  evening  at  dusk,  he  had  found 
that  singular  rag-merchant  just  returned  from  one  of 
his  rounds,  emptying  out  his  basketful  of  broken  glass 
and  old  iron  amongst  his  handsome  show  of  miscel- 
laneous second-hand  goods.  As  Baldassarre  entered 
the  shop,  and  looked  towards  the  smart  pieces  of  ap- 
parel, the  musical  instruments  and  weapons,  which  were 
displayed  in  the  broadest  light  of  the  window,  his  eye 
at  once  singled  out  a  dagger  hanging  up  high  against 
a  red  scarf.  By  buying  the  dagger  he  could  not  only 
satisfy  a  strong  desire,  he  could  open  his  original  errand 
in  a  more  indirect  manner  than  by  speaking  of  the  onyx 
ring.  In  the  course  of  bargaining  for  the  weapon,  he 
let  drop,  with  cautious  carelessness,  that  he  came  from 
Genoa,  and  had  been  directed  to  Bratti's  shop  by  an 
acquaintance  in  that  city  who  had  bought  a  very  valu- 
able ring  here.  Had  the  respectable  trader  any  more 
such  rings  ? 

Whereupon  Bratti  had  much  to  say  as  to  the  unlike- 
liliood  of  such  rings  being  within  reach  of  many  people, 
with  much  vaunting  of  his  own  rare  connections,  due 
to  his  known  wisdom  and  honesty.  It  might  be  true 
that  he  was  a  pedlar  —  he  chose  to  be  a  pedlar;  though 
he  was  rich  enough  to  kick  his  heels  in  his  shop  all  day. 
But  those  who  thought  they  had  said  all  there  was  to 
[    4().'J    ] 


ROMOLA 

be  said  about  Bratti  when  they  had  called  him  a  pedlar 
were  a  good  deal  further  off  the  truth  than  the  other 
side  of  Pisa.  How  was  it  that  he  could  put  that  ring  in 
a  stranger's  way  ?  It  was  because  he  had  a  very  parti- 
cular knowledge  of  a  handsome  young  signor,  who  did 
not  look  quite  so  fine  a  feathered  bird  when  Bratti  first 
set  eyes  on  him  as  he  did  at  the  present  time.  And  by 
a  question  or  two  Baldassarre  extracted,  without  any 
trouble,  such  a  rough  and  rambling  account  of  Tito's 
life  as  the  pedlar  could  give,  since  the  time  when  he 
had  found  him  sleeping  under  the  Loggia  de'  Cerchi. 
It  never  occurred  to  Bratti  that  the  decent  man  (who 
was  rather  deaf,  apparently,  asking  him  to  say  many 
things  twice  over)  had  any  curiosity  about  Tito;  the 
curiosity  was  doubtless  about  himself,  as  a  truly  re- 
markable pedlar. 

And  Baldassarre  left  Bratti's  shop,  not  only  with  the 
dagger  at  his  side,  but  also  witli  a  general  knowledge 
of  Tito's  conduct  and  position  —  of  his  early  sale  of 
the  jewels,  his  immediate  quiet  settlement  of  himself 
at  Florence,  his  marriage,  and  his  great  prosj^erity. 

"What  story  had  he  told  about  his  previous  life  — 
about  his  fatlier?" 

It  would  be  difficult  for  Baldassarre  to  discover  tlie 
answer  to  that  question.  Meanwhile,  he  wanted  to 
learn  all  he  could  about  Florence.  But  he  found,  to 
his  acute  distress,  tliat  of  Uie  new  details  he  learned  he 
could  only  retain  a  few,  and  tliose  only  by  continual 
repetition;  and  he  began  to  be  afraid  of  listening  to  any 
new  discourse,  lest  it  sliould  obliterate  what  he  was 
already  stri\'ing  to  remember. 
[   404  ] 


THE  AVENGER'S  SECRET 

The  day  he  was  discerned  by  Tito  in  the  Piazza  del 
Duomo,  he  had  the  fresh  anguish  of  this  consciousness 
in  his  mind,  and  Tito's  ready  speech  fell  upon  him  like 
the  mockery  of  a  glib,  defying  demon. 

As  he  went  home  to  his  heap  of  straw,  and  passed 
by  the  booksellers'  shops  in  the  Via  del  Garbo,  he 
paused  to  look  at  the  volumes  spread  open.  Could 
he  by  long  gazing  at  one  of  those  books  lay  hold  of  the 
slippery  tlireads  of  memory?  Could  he,  by  striving, 
get  a  firm  grasp  somewhere,  and  lift  himself  above 
these  waters  that  flowed  over  him  ? 

He  was  tempted,  and  bought  the  cheapest  Greek 
book  he  could  see.  He  carried  it  home  and  sat  on  his 
heap  of  straw,  looking  at  the  characters  by  the  light 
of  the  small  window;  but  no  inward  light  arose  on  them. 
Soon  the  evening  darkness  came;  but  it  made  little 
difference  to  Baldassarre.  His  strained  eyes  seemed 
still  to  see  the  white  pages  with  the  unintelligible  black 
marks  upon  them. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
FRUIT   IS  SEED 

MY  Romola,"  said  Tito,  the  second  morning  after 
he  had  made  his  speech  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
"I  am  to  receive  grand  visitors  to-day;  the  Milanese 
Count  is  coming  again,  and  the  Seneschal  de  Beaucaire, 
the  great  favourite  of  the  Cristianissimo.  I  know  you 
don't  care  to  go  through  smiling  ceremonies  with  these 
rustling  magnates,  whom  we  are  not  likely  to  see  again ; 
and  as  they  will  want  to  look  at  the  antiquities  and 
the  library,  perhaps  you  had  better  give  up  your  work 
to-day,  and  go  to  see  your  Cousin  Brigida." 

Romola  discerned  a  wish  in  this  intimation,  and 
immediately  assented.  But  presently,  coming  back  in 
her  hood  and  mantle,  she  said,  "Oh,  what  a  long  breath 
Florence  will  take  when  tlie  gates  are  flung  open,  and 
the  last  Frenchman  is  walking  out  of  them!  Even 
you  are  getting  tired,  with  all  your  patience,  my  Tito; 
confess  it.   Ah,  your  head  is  hot." 

He  was  leaning  over  his  desk,  writing,  and  she  had 
laid  her  hand  on  his  head,  meaning  to  give  a  parting 
caress.  The  attitude  had  been  a  frequent  one,  and  Tito 
was  accustomed,  when  he  felt  her  hand  there,  to  raise 
his  head,  tJirow  liimself  a  little  backward,  and  look  up 
at  her.  But  he  felt  now  as  unable  to  raise  his  head  as 
\, '  if  her  hand  had  been  a  leaden  cowl.  He  spoke  instead, 
in  a  light  tone,  as  his  pen  still  ran  along, — 
[  406  ] 


FRUIT  IS  SEED 

"The  French  are  as  ready  to  go  from  Florence  as 
the  wasps  to  leave  a  ripe  pear  when  they  have  just 
fastened  on  it." 

Romola,  keenly  sensitive  to  the  absence  of  the  usual 
response,  took  away  her  hand  and  said,  "I  am  going, 
Tito." 

"  Farewell,  my  sweet  one.  I  must  wait  at  home.  Take 
Maso  with  you." 

Still  Tito  did  not  look  up,  and  Romola  went  out 
without  saying  any  more.  Very  slight  things  make 
epochs  in  married  life,  and  this  morning  for  the  first 
time  she  admitted  to  herself  not  only  that  Tito  had 
changed,  but  that  he  had  changed  towards  her.  Did 
the  reason  lie  in  herself?  She  might  perhaps  have 
thought  so,  if  there  had  not  been  the  facts  of  the  armour 
and  the  picture  to  suggest  some  external  event  which 
was  an  entire  mystery  to  her. 

But  Tito  no  sooner  believed  that  Romola  was  out  'P 
of  the  house  than  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  up 
in  delightful  security  from  seeing  anything  else  than 
parchment  and  broken  marble.  He  was  rather  dis- 
gusted with  himself  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  look 
up  at  Romola  and  behave  to  her  just  as  usual.  He  would 
have  chosen,  if  he  could,  to  be  even  more  than  usually 
kind;  but  he  could  not,  on  a  sudden,  master  an  invol- 
untary shrinking  from  her,  which,  by  a  subtle  relation, 
depended  on  those  very  characteristics  in  him  that 
made  him  desire  not  to  fail  in  his  marks  of  affection. 
He  was  about  to  take  a  step  which  he  knew  would  arouse 
her  deep  indignation ;  he  would  have  to  encounter  much 
that  was  unpleasant  before  he  could  win  her  forgive- 
[  407  ] 


ROMOLA 

ness.    And  Tito  could  never  find  it  easy  to  face  dis- 

I  pleasure  and  anger;  his  nature  was  one  of  those  most 

remote  from  defiance  or  impudence,  and  all  his  inclina- 

rtions  leaned  towards  preserving  Romola's  tenderness. 
He  was  not  tormented  by  sentimental  scruples  which, 
as  he  had  demonstrated  to  himself  by  a  very  rapid 
course  of  argument,  had  no  relation  to  solid  utility; 
but  his  freedom  from  scruples  did  not  release  him  from 
the  dread  of  what  was  disagreeable.  Un scrupulousness 
gets  rid  of  much,  but  not  of  toothache,  or  wounded 
vanity,  or  the  sense  of  loneliness,  against  which,  as 
the  world  at  present  stands,  there  is  no  security  but 
a  thoroughly  healthy  jaw,  and  a  just,  loving  soul.  And 
Tito  was  feeling  intensely  at  this  moment  that  no  de- 
vices could  save  him  from  pain  in  the  impending  col- 
lision with  Romola;  no  persuasive  blandness  could 
cushion  him  against  the  shock  towards  which  he  was 
being  driven  like  a  timid  animal  urged  to  a  desperate 

J  leap  by  the  terror  of  the  tooth  and  the  claw  that  are 

J  close  behind  it. 

The  secret  feeling  he  had  previously  had  that  the 
tenacious  adherence  to  Bardo's  wishes  about  tlie  library 
iiad  become  under  existing  difficulties  a  piece  of  senti- 
mental folly,  which  deprived  himself  and  Romola 
of  substantial  advantages,  might  perhaps  never  have 
wrought  itself  into  action  but  for  the  events  of  the  past 

/  week,  which  had  brought  at  once  the  pressure  of  a  new 

f  motive  and  the  outlet  of  a  rare  opportunity.    Nay,  it 

was  not  till  his  dread  had  been  aggravated  by  the  sight 

of  Baldassarre  looking  more  like  his  sane  self,  not  until 

he  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  might  be  compelled  to  flee 

[  408  ] 


FRUIT  IS  SEED 

from  Florence,  that  he  had  brought  himself  to  resolve 
on  using  his  legal  right  to  sell  the  library  before  the 
great  oj)portunity  offered  by  French  and  Milanese 
bidders  slipped  through  his  fingers.  For  if  he  had  to 
leave  Florence  he  did  not  want  to  leave  it  as  a  destitute 
wanderer.  He  had  been  used  to  an  agreeable  existence, 
and  he  wished  to  carry  with  him  all  the  means  at  hand 
for  retaining  the  same  agreeable  conditions.  He  wished 
among  other  things  to  carry  Romola  with  him,  and  not, 
if  possible,  to  carry  any  infamy.  Success  had  given 
him  a  growing  appetite  for  all  the  pleasures  that  de- 
pend on  an  advantageous  social  position,  and  at  no 
moment  could  it  look  like  a  temptation  to  him,  but  only 
like  a  hideous  alternative,  to  decamp  under  dishonour, 
even  with  a  bag  of  diamonds,  and  incur  the  life  of  an 
adventurer.  It  was  not  possible  for  him  to  make  him- 
self independent  even  of  those  Florentines  who  only 
greeted  him  with  regard;  still  less  was  it  possible  for 
him  to  make  himself  independent  of  Romola.  She  was 
the  wife  of  his  first  love  —  he  loved  her  still ;  she  be- 
longed to  that  furniture  of  life  which  he  shrank  from 
parting  with.  He  winced  under  her  judgement,  he  felt 
uncertain  how  far  the  revulsion  of  her  feeling  towards 
him  might  go;  and  all  that  sense  of  power  over  a  wife 
which  makes  a  husband  risk  betrayals  that  a  lover 
never  ventures  on  would  not  suflSce  to  counteract  Tito's 
uneasiness.  This  was  the  leaden  weight  which  had  been! 
too  strong  for  his  will,  and  kept  him  from  raising  his 
head  to  meet  her  eyes.  Their  pure  light  brought  too 
near  him  the  prospect  of  a  coming  struggle.  But  it  was  I 
not  to  be  helped;  if  they  had  to  leave  Florence,  they 
[  4UU   J 


h^ 


ROMOLA 

must  have  money;  indeed,  Tito  could  not  arrange  life 
at  all  to  his  mind  without  a  considerable  sum  of  money. 
And  that  problem  of  arranging  life  to  his  mind  had  been 
r  the  source  of  all  his  misdoing.  He  would  have_been 
1  \  equal  to  any  sacrifice  that  was  not  unpleasant. 

The  rustling  magnates  came  and  went,  the  bargains 
had  been  concluded,  and  Romola  returned  home;  but 
nothing  grave  was  said  that  night.  Tito  was  only  gay 
and  chatty,  pouring  forth  to  her,  as  he  had  not  done 
before,  stories  and  descriptions  of  what  he  had  wit- 
nessed during  the  French  visit.  Romola  thought  she 
discerned  an  effort  in  his  liveliness,  and  attributing  it  to 
the  consciousness  in  him  that  she  had  been  wounded 
in  the  morning,  accepted  the  effort  as  an  act  of  penitence, 
inwardly  aching  a  little  at  that  sign  of  growing  dis- 
tance between  them  —  that  there  was  an  offence  about 
which  neither  of  them  dared  to  speak. 

The  next  day  Tito  remained  away  from  home  until 
late  at  night.  It  was  a  marked  day  to  Romola,  for  Piero 
di  Cosimo,  stimulated  to  greater  industry  on  her  behalf 
by  the  fear  that  he  might  have  been  the  cause  of  pain  to 
her  in  the  past  week,  had  sent  home  her  fatlier's  portrait. 
She  had  propped  it  against  the  back  of  his  old  chair, 
and  had  been  looking  at  it  for  some  time,  when  the  door 
opened  behind  her,  and  Bernardo  del  Nero  came  in. 

**It  is  you,  godfather!  How  I  wish  you  had  conie 
sooner!  it  is  getting  a  little  dusk,"  said  Romola,  going 
towards  him. 

"I  have  just  looked  in  to  tell  you  the  good  news,  for 
I  know  Tito  has  not  come  yet,"  said  Bernardo.  "The 
French  King  moves  off  to-morrow:  not  before  it  is  high 
[  410  ] 


FRUIT  IS  SEED 

time.  There  has  been  another  tussle  between  our  people 
and  his  soldiers  this  morning.  But  tliere  's  a  chance 
now  of  the  city  getting  into  order  once  more  and  trade 
going  on." 

"That  is  joyful,"  said  Romola.  "But  it  is  sudden,  is 
it  not?  Tito  seemed  to  tliink  yesterday  that  there  was 
little  prospect  of  the  King's  going  soon." 

"He  has  been  well  barked  at,  that's  the  reason,"  said 
Bernardo,  smiling.  "His  own  generals  opened  tlieir 
throats  pretty  well,  and  at  last  our  Signoria  sent  the 
mastiff  of  the  city,  Fra  Girolamo.  The  Cristianissimo 
was  frightened  at  that  thunder,  and  has  given  the  order 
to  move.  I  'm  afraid  tliere  '11  be  small  agreement  among 
us  when  he's  gone,  but,  at  any  rate,  all  parties  are 
agreed  in  being  glad  not  to  have  Florence  stifled  with 
soldiery  any  longer,  and  tlie  Frate  has  barked  this  time 
to  some  purpose.  All,  what  is  tliis?"  he  added,  as 
Romola,  clasping  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  in  front  of 
tlie  picture.   "Let  us  see." 

He  began  to  unwind  his  long  scarf  while  she  placed 
a  seat  for  him. 

"Don't  you  want  your  spectacles,  godfather?"  said 
Romola,  in  anxiety  that  lie  should  sec  just  what  she  saw. 

"No,  child,  no,"  .said  Bernardo,  uncovering  his  grey 
head,  as  he  seated  himself  with  firm  erectness.  "For 
seeing  at  tJiis  distance,  my  old  eyes  arc  perhaps  better 
tlian  your  young  ones.  Old  men's  eyes  are  like  old  men's 
memories;  tliey  are  strongest  for  Uiings  a  long  way  off." 

"It  is  better  than  having  no  portrait,"  said  Romola, 
apologetically,  after  Bernardo  liad  been  silent  a  little 
while.  "It  is  less  like  him  now  tlian  the  image  I  have  in 
[  411   ] 


ROMOLA 

my  mind,  but  then  that  might  fade  with  the  years." 
She  rested  her  arm  on  the  old  man's  shoulder  as  she 
spoke,  drawn  towards  him  strongly  by  their  common 
interest  in  the  dead. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bernardo.  "I  almost  think  I  see 
Bardo  as  he  was  when  he  was  young,  better  than  that 
picture  shows  him  to  me  as  he  was  when  he  was  old. 
Your  father  had  a  great  deal  of  fire  in  his  eyes  when  he 
was  young.  It  was  what  I  could  never  understand,  that 
he,  with  his  fiery  spirit,  which  seemed  much  more  im- 
patient than  mine,  could  hang  over  the  books  and  live 
with  shadows  all  his  life.  However,  he  had  put  his  heart 
into  that." 

Bernardo  gave  a  slight  shrug  as  he  spoke  the  last 
words,  but  Romola  discerned  in  his  voice  a  feeling  that 
accorded  with  her  own. 

"And  he  was  disappointed  to  the  last,"  she 
said,  involuntarily.  But  immediately  fearing  lest  her 
words  should  be  taken  to  imply  an  accusation  against 
Tito,  she  went  on  almost  hurriedly,  "If  we  could 
only  see  his  longest,  dearest  wish  fulfilled  just  to  his 
mind!" 

"Well,  so  we  may,"  said  Bernardo,  kindly,  rising  and 
putting  on  his  cap.  "The  times  are  cloudy  now,  but 
fish  are  caught  by  waiting.  "Who  knows?  WTien  the 
wheel  has  turned  often  enough,  I  may  be  Gonfaloniere 
yet  before  I  die;  and  no  creditor  can  touch  these  things." 
lie  looked  round  as  he  spoke.  Then,  turning  to  her, 
and  patting  her  cheek,  said,  "And  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  my  dying;  my  ghost  will  claim  nothing.  I've 
taken  care  of  that  in  my  will." 
[  412.  ] 


FRUIT  IS  SEED 

Romola  seized  the  hand  that  was  against  her  cheek, 
and  put  it  to  her  lips  in  silence. 

"Have  n't  you  been  scolding  your  husband  for  keep- 
ing away  from  home  so  much  lately  ?  I  see  him  every- 
where but  here,"  said  Bernardo,  willing  to  change  the 
subject. 

She  felt  the  flush  spread  over  her  neck  and  face  as  she 
said,  "He  has  been  very  much  wanted;  you  know  he 
speaks  so  well.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  his  value  is 
understood," 

"You  are  contented,  then.  Madonna  Orgogliosa?" 
said  Bernardo,  smiling,  as  he  moved  to  the  door. 

"Assuredly." 

Poor  Romola!  There  was  one  thing  that  would  have 
made  the  pang  of  disappointment  in  her  husband  harder 
to  bear;  it  was,  that  any  one  should  know  he  gave  her 
cause  for  disappointment.  This  might  be  a  woman's 
weakness,  but  it  is  closely  allied  to  a  woman's  nobleness. 
She  who  willingly  lifts  up  the  veU  of  her  married  life  has 
profaned  it  from  a  sanctuary  into  a  vulgar  place. 


-v 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
A  REVELATION 

THE  next  day  Romola,  like  every  other  Florentine, 
was  excited  about  the  departure  of  the  French. 
Besides  her  other  reasons  for  gladness,  she  had  a  dim 
hope,  which  she  was  conscious  was  half-superstitious, 
that  those  new  anxieties  about  Tito,  having  come  with 
the  burdensome  guests,  might  perhaps  vanish  with  them. 
The  French  had  been  in  Florence  hardly  eleven  days, 
but  in  that  space  she  had  felt  more  acute  unhappiness 
than  she  had  known  in  her  life  before.  Tito  had  adopted 
the  hateful  armour  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  and 
though  she  could  frame  no  distinct  notion  why  their 
departure  should  remove  the  cause  of  his  fear  —  though, 
when  she  thought  of  that  cause,  the  image  of  the  prisoner 
grasping  him,  as  she  had  seen  it  in  Piero's  sketch,  urged 
itself  before  her  and  excluded  every  other  —  still,  when 
the  French  were  gone,  she  would  be  rid  of  something 
that  was  strongly  associated  witli  her  pain. 

Wrapped  in  her  mantle  she  waited  under  tlie  loggia 
at  tlie  top  of  tlie  house,  and  watched  for  the  glimpses  of 
tlie  troops  and  the  royal  retinue  passing  tlie  bridges  on 
tlieir  way  to  the  Porta  San  Piero,  tliat  looks  towards 
Siena  and  Rome.  She  even  returned  to  her  station  when 
the  gates  had  been  closed,  that  she  might  feel  herself 
vibrating  with  the  great  peal  of  the  bells.  It  was  dusk 
then,  and  when  at  last  she  descended  into  the  library, 
[   414   ] 


A  REVELATION 

she  lit  her  lamp  with  the  resolution  that  she  would  over- 
come the  agitation  which  had  made  her  idle  all  day,  and 
sit  down  to  work  at  her  copying  of  the  catalogue.  Tito 
had  left  home  early  in  the  morning,  and  she  did  not  ex- 
pect him  yet.  Before  he  came  she  intended  to  leave  the 
library,  and  sit  in  the  pretty  saloon,  with  the  dancing 
nymphs  and  tlie  birds.  She  had  done  so  every  evening 
since  he  had  objected  to  the  library  as  chill  and  gloomy. 

To  her  great  surprise,  she  had  not  been  at  work  long 
before  Tito  entered.  Her  first  tliought  was,  how  cheer- 
less he  would  feel  in  the  wide  darkness  of  this  great 
room,  with  one  little  oil  lamp  burning  at  the  further  end, 
and  the  fire  nearly  out.  She  almost  ran  towards  him. 

"Tito,  dearest,  I  did  not  know  you  would  come  so 
soon,"  she  said,  nervously,  putting  up  her  white  arms  to 
unwind  his  beech etto. 

"I  am  not  welcome,  then  ?"  he  said,  with  one  of  his 
brightest  smiles,  clasping  her,  but  playfully  holding  his 
head  back  from  her. 

"Tito!"  She  uttered  the  word  in  a  tone  of  pretty, 
loving  reproach,  and  then  he  kissed  her  fondly,  stroked 
her  hair,  as  his  manner  was,  and  seemed  not  to  mind 
about  taking  off  his  mantle  yet.  Romola  quivered  with 
delight.  All  tlie  emotions  of  tlie  day  had  been  prepar- 
ing in  her  a  keener  sensitiveness  to  tlie  return  of  tliis 
habitual  manner.  "It  will  come  back,"  she  was  saying 
to  herself,  "the  old  happiness  will  perhaps  come  back. 
He  is  like  himself  again." 

Tito  was  taking  great  pains  to  be  like  himself;  his 
heart  was  palpitating  with  anxiety. 

"If  I  had  expected  you  so  soon,"  said  Romola,  as  she 
[   415    ] 


ROMOLA 

at  last  helped  him  to  take  off  his  wrappings,  "I  would 
have  had  a  little  festival  prepared  to  this  joyful  ringing 
of  the  bells.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  here  in  the  library 
when  you  came  home." 

"Never  mind,  sweet,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "Do  not 
think  about  the  fire.     Come  —  come  and  sit  down." 

There  was  a  low  stool  against  Tito's  chair,  and  that 
was  Romola's  habitual  seat  when  they  were  talking  to- 
gether. She  rested  her  arm  on  his  knee,  as  she  used  to 
do  on  her  father's,  and  looked  up  at  him  while  he  spoke. 
He  had  never  yet  noticed  the  presence  of  the  portrait, 
and  she  had  not  mentioned  it  —  thinking  of  it  all  the 
more. 

"I  have  been  enjoying  the  clang  of  the  bells  for  the 
first  time,  Tito,"  she  began.  "I  liked  being  shaken 
and  deafened  by  them :  I  fancied  I  was  something  like 
a  Bacchante  possessed  by  a  divine  rage.  Are  not  the 
people  looking  very  joyful  to-night?" 

"Joyful  after  a  sour  and  pious  fashion,"  said  Tito, 
with  a  shrug.  "But,  in  truth,  those  who  are  left  behind 
in  Florence  have  little  cause  to  be  joyful :  it  seems  to  me, 
the  most  reasonable  ground  of  gladness  would  be  to 
have  got  out  of  Florence." 

Tito  had  sounded  the  desired  keynote  witliout  any 
trouble,  or  appearance  of  premeditation.  He  spoke 
with  no  emphasis,  but  he  looked  grave  enough  to  make 
Romola  ask  rather  anxiously,  — 

"Why,  Tito?  Are  there  fresh  troubles?" 

"No  need  of  fresh  ones,  my  Romola.  There  are  tliree 
strong  parties  in  the  city,  all  ready  to  fly  at  each  other's 
throats.  And  if  the  Frate's  party  is  strong  enough  to 
[   416   ] 


A  REVELATION 

frighten  the  other  two  into  silence,  as  seems  most  likely, 
life  will  be  as  pleasant  and  amusing  as  a  funeral.  They 
have  the  plan  of  a  Great  Council  simmering  already; 
and  if  tliey  get  it,  the  man  who  sings  sacred  Lauds  the 
loudest  will  be  tlie  most  eligible  for  office.  And  besides 
that,  the  city  will  be  so  drained  by  the  payment  of  this 
great  subsidy  to  the  French  King,  and  by  the  war  to  get 
back  Pisa,  tliat  the  prospect  would  be  dismal  enough 
without  the  rule  of  fanatics.  On  the  whole,  Florence  will 
be  a  delightful  place  for  those  worthies  who  entertain 
themselves  in  the  evening  by  going  into  crypts  and  lash- 
ing themselves;  but  for  everything  else,  tlie  exiles  have 
the  best  of  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  been  thinking 
seriously  that  we  should  be  wise  to  quit  Florence,  my 
Romola." 

She  started.  "Tito,  how  could  we  leave  Florence? 
Surely  you  do  not  think  I  could  leave  it  —  at  least,  not 
yet  —  not  for  a  long  while."  She  had  turned  cold  and 
trembling,  and  did  not  find  it  quite  easy  to  speak.  Tito 
must  know  the  reasons  slie  had  in  her  mind. 

"That  is  all  a  fabric  of  your  own  imagination,  my 
sweet  one.  Your  secluded  life  has  made  you  lay  sudi 
false  stress  on  a  few  tilings.  You  know  I  used  to  tell 
you,  before  we  were  married,  tliat  I  wished  we  were 
somewhere  else  tlian  in  Florence.  If  you  had  seen  more 
places  and  more  people,  you  would  know  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  that  there  is  something  in  tlie  Florentines 
that  reminds  me  of  tlicir  cutting  spring  winds.  I  like 
people  who  take  life  less  eagerly;  and  it  would  be  good 
for  my  Komola,  too,  to  see  a  new  life.  I  should  like  tp 
dip  her  a  little  in  the  soft  waters  of  forgctfulness." 
[   417   ] 


ROMOLA 

He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  brow,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  fair  hair  again;  but  she  felt  his  caress 
no  more  than  if  he  had  kissed  a  mask.  She  was  too 
agitated  by  the  sense  of  the  distance  between  their 
minds  to  be  conscious  that  his  lips  touched  her. 

"Tito,  it  is  not  because  I  suppose  Florence  is  the 
pleasantest  place  in  the  world  that  I  desire  not  to  quit 
it.  It  is  because  I  —  because  we  have  to  see  my  father's 
wish  fulfilled.  My  godfather  is  old;  he  is  seventy-one; 
we  could  not  leave  it  to  him." 

"It  is  precisely  those  superstitions  which  hang  about 
your  mind  like  bedimming  clouds,  my  Romola,  that 
make  one  great  reason  why  I  could  wish  we  were  two 
hundred  leagues  from  Florence.  I  am  obliged  to  take 
care  of  you  in  opposition  to  your  own  will :  if  those  dear 
eyes,  that  look  so  tender,  see  falsely,  I  must  see  for  them, 
and  save  my  wife  from  wasting  her  life  in  disappointing 
herself  by  impracticable  dreams." 

Romola  sat  silent  and  motionless :  she  could  not  blind 
herself  to  the  direction  in  which  Tito's  words  pointed: 
he  wanted  to  persuade  her  tliat  they  might  get  the  li- 
brary deposited  in  some  monastery,  or  take  some  other 
ready  means  to  rid  themselves  of  a  task,  and  of  a  tie 
to  Florence;  andjshe  was  determined  never  to  submit 
■^  her  mind  to  his  judgement  on  tliis  question  of  duty 
to  her  father 3  she  was  inwardly  prepared  to  encounter 
any  sort  of  pain  in  resistance.  But  the  determination 
was  kept  latent  in  these  first  moments  by  the  heart- 
crushing  sense  tliat  now  at  last  she  and  Tito  must  be 
confessedly  divided  in  their  wislies.  He  was  glad  of  her 
/  silence;  for,rmuch  as  he  had  feared  the  strength  of 
^  I   418   ] 


A  REVELATION 

her  feeling,  it  was  impossible  for  him,  shut  up  in  the 
narrowness  that  hedges  in  all  merely  clever,  unimpas- 
sioned  men,  not  to  overestimate  tlie  persuasiveness  of 
his  own  arguments.  His  conduct  did  not  look  ugly  to 
himself,  and  his  imagination  did  not  suffice  to  show  him  j 
exactly  how  it  would  look  to  Romola.  /  He  went  on  in 
the  same  gentle,  remonstrating  tone. 

"  You  know,  dearest,  — -  your  own  clear  judgement 
always  showed  you, — that  the  notion  of  isolating  a 
collection  of  books  and  antiquities,  and  attaching  a  sin- 
gle name  to  them  for  ever,  was  one  that  had  no  valid, 
substantial  good  for  its  object:  and  yet  more,  one  tliat 
was  liable  to  be  defeated  in  a  thousand  ways.  See  what 
has  become  of  the  Medici  collections!  And,  for  my  part, 
I  consider  it  even  blameworthy  to  entertain  those  j>etty 
views  of  appropriation :  why  should  any  one  be  reason- 
ably glad  that  Florence  should  possess  the  benefits  of 
learned  research  and  taste  more  than  any  otlier  city? 
I  understand  your  feeling  about  the  wishes  of  the  dead, 
but  wisdom  puts  a  limit  to  these  sentiments,  else  lives 
might  be  continually  wasted  in  that  sort  of  futile  de- 
votion —  like  praising  deaf  gods  for  ever.  You  gave 
your  life  to  your  father  while  he  lived;  why  should  you 
demand  more  of  yourself?" 

"Because  it  was  a  trust,"  said  Romola,  in  a  low  but 
distinct  voice.  "He  trusted  me;  he  trusted  you,  Tito. 
I  did  not  expect  you  to  feel  anything  else  al>out  it  —  to 
feel  as  I  do  —  but  I  did  expect  you  to  feel  that." 

"Yes,  dearest,  of  course  I  should  feel  it  on  a  point 
where  your  father's  real  welfare  or  happiness  was  con- 
cerned; but  tliere  is  no  question  of  tliat  now.    If  we 
[    419   ] 


ROMOLA 

believed  in  purgatory,  I  should  be  as  anxious  as  you  to 
have  masses  said;  and  if  I  believed  it  could  now  pain 
,  your  father  to  see  his  library  preserved  and  used  in  a 
^  rather  different  way  from  what  he  had  set  his  mind  on, 
I  should  share  the  strictness  of  your  views.  But  a  little 
philosophy  should  teach  us  to  rid  ourselves  of  those 
air-woven  fetters  that  mortals  hang  round  themselves, 
spending  their  lives  in  misery  under  the  mere  imag- 
ination of  weight.  Your  mind,  which  seizes  ideas  so 
readily,  my  Romola,  is  able  to  discriminate  between 
substantial  good  and  these  brain-wrought  fantasies.  Ask 
yourself,  dearest,  what  possible  good  can  these  books 
and  antiquities  do,  stowed  together  under  your  father's 
name  in  Florence,  more  than  they  would  do  if  they 
were  divided  or  carried  elsewhere  ?  Nay,  is  not  the  very 
dispersion  of  such  things  in  hands  that  know  how  to 
value  them  one  means  of  extending  tlieir  usefulness? 
This  rivalry  of  Italian  cities  is  very  petty  and  illiberal. 
The  loss  of  Constantinople  was  the  gain  of  the  whole 
civilized  world." 

Romola  was  still  too  thoroughly  under  the  painful 
pressure  of  the  new  revelation  Tito  was  making  of 
himself,  for  her  resistance  to  find  any  strong  vent.  Aa 
that  fluent  talk  fell  on  her  ears  there  was  a  rising  con- 
>  tempt  within  her,  whicli  only  made  her  more  conscious 
of  her  bruised,  despairing  love,  her  love  for  the  Tito 
she  had  married  and  believed  in<^Her  nature,  possessed 
with  tlie  energies  of  strong  emotion,  recoiled  from  tliis 
hopelessly  shallow  readiness  which  professed  to  ap- 
propriate the  widest  sympatliies  and  had  no  pulse  for 
the  nearest!.  She  still  spoke  like  one  who  was  restrained 
'^  [   420   ] 


v/ 


A  REVELATION 

from  showing  all  she  felt.  She  had  only  drawn  away 
her  arm  from  his  knee,  and  sat  with  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  cold  and  motionless  as  locked  waters. 

"You  talk  of  substantial  good,  Tito!  Are  faithful-* 
ness  and  love  and  sweet  grateful  memories  no  good  ? 
Is  it  no  good  that  we  should  keep  our  silent  promises 
on  which  others  build  because  they  believe  in  our  love 
and  truth  ?  Is  it  no  good  Uiat  a  just  life  should  be  justly 
honoured  ?  Or,  is  it  good  tliat  we  should  harden  our 
hearts  against  all  the  wants  and  hopes  of  tliose  who 
have  depended  on  us  ?  What  good  can  belong  to  men 
who  have  such  souls  ?  To  talk  cleverly,  perhaps,  and 
find  soft  couches  for  themselves,  and  live  and  die  witli 
their  base  selves  as  their  best  companions."  I 

Her  voice  had  gradually  risen  till  there  was  a  ring  of 
scorn  in  the  last  words;  she  made  a  slight  pause,  but  he 
saw  there  were  other  words  quivering  on  her  lips,  and 
he  chose  to  let  them  come. 

"I  know  of  no  good  for  cities  or  the  world  if  tliey 
are  to  be  made  up  of  such  beings.  But  I  am  not  tliink- 
ing  of  other  Italian  cities  and  the  whole  civilized  world 

—  I  am  thinking  of  my  father,  and  of  my  love  and 
sorrow  for  him,  and  of  his  just  claims  on  us.  I  would 
give  up  anything  else»  Tito,  —  I  would  leave  Florence, 

—  what  else  did  I  live  for  but  for  him  and  you  ?   But 
I  will  not  give  up  that  duty.    What  have  I  to  do  with  v 
your  arguments  ?    It  was  a  yearning  of  his  heart,  and 
therefore  it  is  a  yearning  of  mine." 

Her  voice,  from  having  been  tremulous,  had  become 
full  and  firm.   She  felt  that  she  had  been  urged  on  to 
say  all  that  it  was  needful  for  her  to  say.   She  thought, 
[   421    ] 


ROMOLA 

poor  thing,  there  was  nothing  harder  to  come  than  this 
struggle  against  Tito's  suggestions  as  against  the  meaner 
part  of  herself. 

He  had  begun  to  see  clearly  that  he  could  not  per- 
suade her  into  assent:  he  must  take  another  course, 
and  show  her  that  the  time  for  resistance  was  past. 
That,  at  least,  would  put  an  end  to  further  struggle; 
and  if  the  disclosure  were  not  made  by  himself  to-night, 
to-morrow  it  must  be  made  in  another  way.  This  ne- 
cessity nerved  his  courage;  and  his  experience  of  her 
affectionateness  and  unexpected  submissiveness,  ever 
since  their  marriage  until  now,  encouraged  him  to  hope 
that,  at  last,  she  would  accommodate  herself  to  what 
had  been  his  will. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  spirit  of  blind 
persistence,  my  Romola,"  he  said,  quietly,  "because 
it  obliges  me  to  give  you  pain.  But  I  partly  foresaw 
your  opposition,  and  as  a  prompt  decision  was  neces- 
sary, I  avoided  that  obstacle,  and  decided  without  con- 
sulting you.  The  very  care  of  a  husband  for  his  wife's 
interest  compels  him  to  tliat  separate  action  sometimes 
—  even  when  he  has  such  a  wife  as  you,  my  Romola." 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  in  breathless  inquiry. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  answering  her  look,  "tliat  I  have 
arranged  for  the  transfer,  both  of  the  books  and  of  the 
antiquities,  where  tliey  will  find  tlie  highest  use  and 
value.  The  books  have  been  bought  for  tlie  Duke  of 
Milan,  the  marbles  and  bronzes  and  the  rest  are  going 
to  France:  and  both  will  be  protected  by  tlie  stability 
of  a  great  Power,  instead  of  remaining  in  a  city,  which 
is  exposed  to  ruin." 

[   422   1 


A  REVELATION 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Romola  had  started 
from  her  seat,  and  stood  up  looking  down  at  him,  with 
tightened  hands  falling  before  her,  and,  for  tlie  first  time 
in  her  life,  witli  a  flash  of  fierceness  in  her  scorn  and 
anger. 

"You  have  sold  them  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  she  distrusted 
her  ears. 

"I  have,"  said  Tito,  quailing  a  little.  The  scene  was 
unpleasant  —  the  descending  scorn  already  scorched 
him. 

"You  are  a  treacherous  man!"  she  said,  with  some- 
thing grating  in  her  voice,  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  he  sat  still,  feeling 
that  ingenuity  was  powerless  just  now.  Suddenly  she 
turned  away,  and  said  in  an  agitated  tone,  "It  may  be 
hindered  —  I  am  going  to  my  godfather." 

In  an  instant  Tito  started  up,  went  to  the  door,  locked 
it,  and  took  out  the  key.  It  was  time  for  al)  the  mascu- 
line predominance  that  was  latent  in  him  to  show  itself. 
But  he  was  not  angry;  he  only  felt  that  the  moment  was 
eminently  unpleasant,  and  that  when  tliis  scene  was  at 
an  end  he  should  be  glad  to  keep  away  from  Romola 
for  a  little  while.  But  it  was  absolutely  necessary  first 
that  she  should  be  reduced  to  passiveness. 

"Trj'  to  calm  yourself  a  little,  Romola,"  he  said,  lean- 
ing in  the  easiest  attitude  possible  against  a  |)edestal 
under  the  bust  of  a  grim  old  Roman.  Not  that  he  was 
inwardly  easy:  his  heart  palpitated  with  a  moral  dread, 
against  whicli  no  chain-armour  could  be  found.  He  had 
locked  in  his  wife's  anger  and  scorn,  but  he  had  been 
obliged  to  lock  himself  in  with  it;  and  his  blood  did  not 
[   423   ] 


ROMOLA 

rise  with   contest — his   olive  cheek  was  perceptibly 
paled. 

Romola  had  paused  and  turned  her  eyes  on  him  as 
she  saw  him  take  his  stand  and  lodge  the  key  in  his 
scarsella.  Her  eyes  were  flashing,  and  her  whole  frame 
seemed  to  be  possessed  by  impetuous  force  that  wanted 
to  leap  out  in  some  deed.  All  the  crushing  pain  of  dis- 
appointment in  her  husband,  which  had  made  the  strong- 
est part  of  her  consciousness  a  few  minutes  before,  was 
annihilated  by  the  vehemence  of  her  indignation.  She 
could  not  care  in  this  moment  that  the  man  she  was 
despising  as  he  leaned  there  in  his  loathsome  beauty  — 
she  could  not  care  that  he  was  her  husband ;  she  could 
only  feel  that  she  despised  him.  The  pride  and  fierce- 
ness of  the  old  Bardo  blood  had  been  thoroughly  awaked 
in  her  for  the  first  time. 

"Try  at  least  to  understand  the  fact,"  said  Tito,  "and 
do  not  seek  to  take  futile  steps  which  may  be  fatal.  It 
is  of  no  use  for  you  to  go  to  your  godfather.  Messer 
Bernardo  cannot  reverse  what  I  have  done.  Only  sit 
down.  You  would  hardly  wish,  if  you  were  quite  your- 
self, to  make  known  to  any  third  person  what  passes 
between  us  in  private." 

Tito  knew  that  he  had  touched  the  right  fibre  there. 
But  she  did  not  sit  down ;  she  was  too  unconscious  of  her 
body  voluntarily  to  change  her  attitude. 

"Why  can  it  not  be  reversed  ?"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
"Nothing  is  moved  yet." 

"Simply  because  the  sale  has  been  concluded  by 
written  agreement;  the  purchasers  have  left  Florence, 
and  I  hold  the  bonds  for  the  purchase-money." 
[   424   ] 


A  REVELATION 

"If  my  father  had  suspected  you  of  being  a  faitliless 
man,"  siiid  Romola,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  scorn,  which  in- 
sisted on  darting  out  before  she  could  say  anything  else, 
**he  would  have  placed  the  library  safely  out  of  your 
power.  But  death  overtook  him  too  soon,  and  when 
you  were  sure  his  ear  was  deaf,  and  his  hand  stiff,  you 
robbed  him."  She  paused  an  instant,  and  then  said, 
witli  gatliorod  passion,  "Have  you  robbed  somebody  else, 
who  is  not  dead  ?    Is  tliat  the  reason  you  wear  armour  ?  " 

Romola  had  been  driven  to  utter  the  words  as  men 
are  driven  to  use  the  lash  of  the  horsewhip.  At  first, 
Tito  felt  horribly  cowed;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  dis- 
grace he  had  been  dreading  would  be  worse  than  he  had 
imagined  it.  But  soon  there  was  a  reaction :  such  power 
of  dislike  and  resistance  as  there  was  within  him  was 
beginning  to  rise  against  a  wife  whose  voice  seemed  like 
the  herald  of  a  retributive  fate.  Her,  at  least,  his  quick 
mind  told  him  that  he  might  master. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  said,  coolly,  "to  answer  the  words 
of  madness,  Romola.  Your  peculiar  feeling  about  your 
father  has  made  you  mad  at  this  moment.  Any  rational 
person  looking  at  the  case  from  a  due  distance  will  see 
that  I  have  taken  tlie  wisest  course.  Apart  from  the 
influence  of  your  exaggerated  feelings  on  him,  I  am 
convinced  that  Messer  Bernardo  would  be  of  tliat 
opinion." 

"He  would  not!"  said  Romola.  "He  lives  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  my  father's  wish  exactly  fulfilled.  We  spoke  of 
it  together  only  yesterday.  He  will  help  me  yet.  Wlio 
are  these  men  to  whom  you  have  sold  my  father's  pro- 
perty?" 

[   425   ] 


ROMOLA 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  told,  ex- 
cept that  it  signifies  little.  The  Count  di  San  Severino 
and  the  Seneschal  de  Beaucaire  are  now  on  their  way 
with  the  King  to  Siena." 

"They  may  be  overtaken  and  persuaded  to  give  up 
their  purchase,"  said  Romola,  eagerly,  her  anger  begin- 
ning to  be  surmounted  by  anxious  thought. 

"No,  they  may  not,"  said  Tito,  with  cool  decision. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  do  not  choose  tliat  they  should." 

"  But  if  you  were  paid  the  money  ? — we  will  pay  you 
the  money,"  said  Romola. 

No  words  could  have  disclosed  more  fully  her  sense 
of  alienation  from  Tito;  but  they  were  spoken  with  less 
of  bitterness  than  of  anxious  pleading.  And  he  felt 
stronger,  for  he  saw  that  the  first  impulse  of  fury  was 
past. 

"No,  my  Romola.  Understand  tliat  such  thoughts  as 
these  are  impracticable.  You  would  not,  in  a  reasonable 
moment,  ask  your  godfather  to  bury  three  thousand 
florins  in  addition  to  what  he  has  already  paid  on  the 
library.  I  tliink  your  pride  and  delicacy  would  shrink 
from  that." 

She  began  to  tremble  and  turn  cold  again  with  dis- 
couragement, and  sank  down  on  tlie  carved  chest  near 
which  she  was  standing.  He  went  on  in  a  clear  voice, 
under  which  she  shuddered,  as  if  it  had  been  a  narrow 
cold  stream  coursing  over  a  hot  cheek. 

"Moreover,  it  is  not  my  will  that  Messer  Bernardo 
should  advance  the  money,  even  if  the  project  were  not 
an  utterly  wild  one.  And  I  beg  you  to  consider,  before 
[   426   ] 


A  REVELATION 

you  take  any  step  or  utter  any  word  on  the  subject,  what 
will  be  the  consequences  of  your  placing  yourself  in 
opposition  to  me,  and  trying  to  exiiibit  your  husband 
in  tlie  odious  light  which  your  own  distempered  feel- 
ings cast  over  him.  AMiat  object  will  you  serve  by 
injuring  me  witli  Messer  Bernardo  ?  The  event  is  irre- 
vocable, the  library  is  sold,  and  you  are  my  wife." 

Every  word  was  spoken  for  the  sake  of  a  calculated 
eflFei't,  for  his  intellect  was  urged  into  the  utmost  activity 
by  tlie  danger  of  the  crisis.  He  knew  tliat  Romola's 
mind  would  take  in  rapidly  enough  all  tlie  wide  mean- 
ing of  his  speech.  He  waited  and  watched  her  io 
silence. 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  from  him,  and  was  looking 
on  the  ground,  and  in  that  way  she  sat  for  several  min- 
utes. When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  quite  altered,  —  it 
was  quiet  and  cold. 

"I  have  one  thing  to  ask." 

"Ask  anything  that  I  can  do  without  injuring  us  both, 
Roraola." 

"That  you  will  give  me  that  portion  of  tlie  money 
which  lielongs  to  my  godfatlier,  and  let  me  pay  him." 

"I  must  have  some  assurance  from  you,  first,  of  the 
attitude  you  intend  to  take  towards  me." 

"Do  you  believe  in  assurances,  Tito  ?"  she  said,  with 
a  tinge  of  returning  bitterness. 

"From  you,  I  do." 

"I  will  do  you  no  harm.  I  shall  disclose  nothing. 
I  will  say  nothing  to  pain  him  or  you.  You  say  truly, 
the  event  is  irrevocable." 

"Then  I  will  do  what  you  desire  to-morrow  morning." 
[   427   ] 


ROMOLA 

"To-night,  if  possible,"  said  Romola,  "that  we  may 
not  speak  of  it  again." 

"It  is  possible,"  he  said,  moving  towards  the  lamp, 
while  she  sat  still,  looking  away  from  him  with  absent 
eyes. 

Presently  he  came  and  bent  down  over  her,  to  put 
a  piece  of  paper  into  her  hand.  "You  will  receive  some- 
thing in  return,  you  are  aware,  my  Romola  ?"  he  said, 
gently,  not  minding  so  much  what  had  passed,  now  he 
was  secure;  and  feeling  able  to  try  and  propitiate  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  taking  the  paper,  without  looking  at 
him,  "I  understand." 

"And  you  will  forgive  me,  my  Romola,  when  you 
have  had  time  to  reflect."  He  just  touched  her  brow 
with  his  lips,  but  she  took  no  notice,  and  seemed  really 
unconscious  of  the  act. 

She  was  aware  tliat  he  unlocked  the  door  and  went 
out.  She  moved  her  head  and  listened.  The  great  door 
of  the  court  opened  and  shut  again.  She  started  up 
as  if  some  sudden  freedom  had  come,  and  going  to  her 
father's  chair  where  his  picture  was  propped,  fell  on  her 
knees  before  it,  and  burst  into  sobs. 


END   OF  VOLUME  I 


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